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Skirblama

Some dude in the NY Times letters the other day had it right: Obama and Clinton are not “divisive” to Democrats as the gasp media wants them to be. Quite the opposite: we, for the first time in forever, are experiencing an “embarrassment of riches” and would probably be just as happy to vote for one as the other when it comes down to it. I know that I, after I’d voted for Obama in my very old school polling place up in Oaktown (you had to draw a line from the front part of an arrow to the back, thereby completing the arrow on a piece of paper, which was then fed into a “vote-a-matic” machine to be somehow manipulated in George Bush’s favor somewhere. Way less tech, by the way, then the giant voting machines we used to vote on back in the ‘burg circa 1980. I left the church (always voting in a church… ) actually feeling good! Good about my vote! I can’t remember the last time that happened.

Why Obama for skirblog?  Its not that I’m anti Clinton. I will even admit to liking Bill Clinton, something that the millions who elected, then re-elected the dude are reluctant to do anymore, and I still like him. I’m not as crazy about Hilary, but I do believe that a woman should run this country.  All countries really.  Unfortunately Hilary disappoints mightily about the freakin’ war, she hems and haws about timetables and coalitions and all the bullshit we’re already hearing, none of which is gonna do a goddamn thing (see how I’ve switched to the rhetoric of political blogging?)  Obama, on the other hand, has come right out and said the war is not working and will not work and he will bring our troops home. Imagine that, a candidate coming out and saying something. Sheet. We need to end this bullshit war immed.

You don’t usually see the skirblog getting’ political, so I will stop.  But wanna hear a great anti-war song from an unlikely source? Then dig out your old Sabbath and give “War Pigs” a whirl. Damn. War Pigs! Here’s where I will admit that I gained my re-appreciation for the song only playing my son’s Guitar Hero game on the XBox 360. This game does, in fact, rock, is more fun when you’re drunk (which is why son rarely plays it) and has made me nostalgic for actually playing the goddamn bass again. Anyone want to start a band? But War Pigs came up for slaughter by me on the false guitar, and while I was mangling the song and getting’ booed by the audience, and worse, getting a crappy score, I paid attention to the lyrics and was really struck by the passion there. Where are all the dark metal, anti-war songs anymore?

I wasn’t the biggest Sabbath fan back in the day, but I didn’t dislike them either. But I’ll tell you who I am the biggest fan of these days: The Kills. I did mention them last post, but at the time wasn’t in the full blown ape shit thralls about them as I am now. I mean Fiery Furnaces type ape shit thralls. Or Deerhoof.  The album, “No Wow,” which came out all the way back in ’05, totally passed me by. Unfortunate for me then, but fortunate for me now. So its all good (Bakery, Inc.) (There is a bakery out here called “the It’s All Good Bakery, Inc., (home of the 7UP Lemon Pound Cake) so I’ve vowed that everytime somebody says, “its all good,” I will immed. follow with “Bakery, Inc.”) The Kills is sex music. Very tense, wrong, raw, buildup and release, also melodic and sweet, bitchy and sassy. What's not to love? It doesn’t hurt matters that the two people involved are good looking and stylish. To put it in kind of juvenile terms, they’re cool. I know I know, but damn it they are. They pose, they’re posers for sure, but when it comes down to it, they also walk the walk, Look at me I’m gushing. It also doesn’t hurt that Alison Mosshart is very attractive and intriguing in a kind of rock star, damaged way. Its hard to get a fix on her, as she seems to hide behind her hair a lot and be constantly photographed out of focus or in fleeting images. I just grabbed a copy of their even earlier release, “Keep on your Mean Side,” and it fukkin’ rules as well. Debating whether to go see them or not on Valentine’s Day in SF. Envisioning a kind of crowded, hot and nasty scene. Still debating. And find myself looking forward to March or April when they say they’re releasing their new one. The two videos for it are way stupid. Check ‘em out.

On a rare movie-going night I treated myself to “I’m not There,” the Todd Haynes semi bio sorta graphical fiction-y Bob Dyan film that’s been nominated for various awards, etc. I was intrigued by its kind of cubist idea of showing the many sides of Bob Dylan’s personality at once by splitting him into different actors, of different ages, genders and races, and also rearranging the sequence of “Dylans” in time, remixing them, etc. Haynes has been known as a detail-freak, a meticulous filmmaker, from his past work like “Far from Heaven,” which was very concerned with getting sets and costumes and film stock and everything it was trying to do right. “I’m not There” has similar concerns and is a very complex and complicated film. A hell of a lot of care and craft that went into it. I mean people still wet themselves thinking about Peter Jackson and “Lord of the Rings,” but I think a film like “I’m not There” is even harder to pull off if you look at all the time periods and evocations it tries to present, in as much detail and  correctness as “Far from Heaven, all with live actors, sets, not so much CGI. Unless I’m wrong.  On a weird, cameo side-note, I was literally taken aback by the sudden presence of Kim Gordon from Sonic Youth in the film. Like, what the f is she doing here? And not only that but she was kind of scary looking, all giant and amplified and not too attractive really, I'm sorry to so superficially say cause I like Kim Gordon, I really do, and think she's attractive (expecially with a bass slung around her) and interesting etc, but she is the oldest Youth I think, unless Renaldo's got her beat. They both are lookin' not young, while Steve Shelly and of course Thurston seem to look unnaturally young. Maybe its the kid hair cuts? But anyway they’re still sonic, so who cares?

What else can I tell you? Lost is back. I now watch something on tv again. And you will have to suffer my Lost theories. I’ve got a couple going right now, and I want to tell you that I formulate my Lost theories without consulting any outside Lost web effluvia. I just watch the shows and ponder. So the big “flash forward” from the end of last season messed everybody up real good. But then it hit me, Jack’s beard that is. And I immediately thought of the great old Star Trek episode, “Mirror Mirror” (and no, I don’t know these episode titles by heart, I have to look them up…) where the crew, due to a transporter malfunction (my favorite plot device) swaps places with their exact “opposites” from an alternate dimension, or better, an evil alternate dimension where peace is war, the Federation is the Empire, and Spock has a beard. Why does Spock have a beard? Because being the logical fellow he is, and not human – usually a plus, its harder to tell who is who. Spock exists more in shades of gray, being more advanced that he is, unlike humans, who try so hard to act civilized, but in the “mirror” easily revert back to snorting, lustful, power made animals. Or is it visa versa? So Spock gets a beard so we can tell which Spock is who. Whom? The trope has been satirized often, including the name of the prog rock band, “Spock’s Beard,” and notably on Futurama when the evil robot Bender gets a tiny, magnetic goatee. So here we are in Lost, in the future when they are back in LA. Yet Jack, inexplicably, has this giant beard. Why? Just cause he’s becoming a drunk, and letting himself go? I don’t think so. I think this signifies Jack is “home” in LA, but its not the right version of LA he should be in. In this LA Jack is a drunk, his dad is still alive and he has a beard. The island of Lost, among other things, may be some kind of portal between dimensions. Other clue? Well in the first scene of the new season, Hurley drives his car through a stack of Papayas in the “Papaya District” of LA, so says the background newscaster that Jack is watching on TV. The Papaya District? Is there such a place in LA? I no think so. Jack needs to get back to the island so he can get back to his real Los Angeles, where he is good… and shaven. Bakery Inc.

civil war-era skirb

Thanks to GM for the title! Goblets Rule!

This from the latest tech wires: Unilever, maker of Skippy Peanut Butter has announced rollout of their new product, "Skippy Select" which according to the company is fresher, tastier and more peanut-ier than their "classic" Skippy.  It also boasts the unusual characterstic of only being  spreadable on Unilever's new sandwich bread product, "Attraction" and "Attraction Wheat."  A proprietary enzyme in the peanut butter prevents it from being used with any other non-Unilever product. If you try to spread it on ordinary bread, the enyme reacts with the bread and causes it to liquify, ruining both the bread and the peanut butter.  Skippy plans a slow roll out, eventually replacing all "classic" versions of their popular peanut butter by Q3 2009. Initially, the company says, each consumer will receive a free loaf of "Attraction" bread with each purchase of the peanut butter and coupons for two more loaves.

A spokesperson for the JM Smucker's Co, maker of fruit spreads and notably, Jif brand peanut butter has countered by launching development of an enzyme in Smucker's jams and jellies that will only be spreadable combined with Jif peanut butter.

Unilever is now in talks with other manufacturers of jams and jellies to work out licensing agreements for Skippy and Attraction Bread. Unilver says the enzyme can easily be programmed to react against a certain product, ie: only working with approved breads and spreads, and placing rival spreads like Smuckers on the "liquify list."

As an interesting side note, Unilever acquired the Skippy brand from the Rosefield Packing Co. of Alameda, CA! Skirblog's homebase for a number of years!  The name was in litigation for many years as the creator of the "Skippy" comic book, Percy Crosby tried to have the trademark invalidated. Rosefield persisted when Mr. Crosby was "committed to an insane asylum" according to wikipedia, and the name was passed to Unilever, which is still in litigation with the heirs of the Crosby family.

I'm only making part of this up. Also, fuck you both Apple and Microsoft.

In other skir-related news: I often see this sign: "hair cuts" and it always seems wrong to me. Esp. since its supposed to be one word, "haircuts." When its two it takes on other meanings. Also think its interesting when people say "eyeglasses" and "inkpen." Glasses don't usually need modified further, as we generally know that a person is referring to eye glasses as opposed to tequila shot glasses; and the same for ink pen. While there are undoubedly those out there using "blood pens," and the like, I think "pen" is usually okay. Not that these longer phrases are incorrect, just odd.

Speaking of "not incorrect" (as opposed to correct. A different thing entirely) and odd, saw the film, "Cloverfield," last week. Note to parents: don't take under-13's to this film. While there is very little graphic gore or violence, the psychological fright was too much for my near-11 year old. He, who can blast Halo aliens into disgusting splatters of gore without batting an eyelash, was shaken to his core for days over the  realism and unseen scares of Cloverfield. My take was very different if I separate it from the scare my poor son was experiencing. Since I don't like horror films or murder/slasher/death/gore/evil films, Cloverfield, like Blair Witch, is a great opportunity for me to go the movies and get a good, old fashioned scare. I appreaciated this aspect, like a good coaster, very short term, non lingering and fun. But heed the PG-13.

Back in the archives I mentioned that I was recorded one sunny afternoon talking about my dumb job. Now that recording,  plus a bonus interview with the skirb entitled "Death and Typos" is available on my friend Jon Armstrong's excellent podcast, "If You're Just Joining Us." Jon has interviewed a bunch of interesting people already and those interviews are worth listening to. Since he quickly ran out of ideas, in desperation he turned to me and you can hear the results here.

A lot of music is flowing in and out of the skir-mansion of late through the lala system. I rec'd so many Breeders/Amps/Throwing Music CDs, and so many Ween CDs that I can't tell any of them apart. One CD that stood out immed. and is worth noting however was "No Wow" by the Kills. Very unusual and compelling music. Kind of counter-intuitive in a lot of ways: two people: female vocalist "VV" and one noisy guitar (sometimes) maybe a drum machine sometimes, homemade sounding sometimes,  but works because.... because... its just fukkin' good. For instance the song, "ticket man" is VV, who sounds like an evil hybid of Sleater Kinney and Cowboy Junkies, backed by like one note on a piano, and somebody tapping on what sounds like an empty Quaker Oatmeal box in the distance. But shit man, it rules. Reminds me in a lot of ways of Suicide, but without inducing that feeling in the listener as Suicide often did. A definite check out.

Civil War Era Skirb

Wha? But yes, we took another of our epic field trips, the youngling and I. You remember our Balcutha adventure last year right? This year the masterminds at the Alameda Unified School Dist had other plans for us.

We were to sail over to Angel Island, sitting as it does smack dab in the middle of the SF Bay, and while  there, immerse ourselves at Fort McDowell, a partially restored Civil War era facility that guarded our precious Golden Gate. The Park Svc runs an immersion program where the kids are newly recruited soldiers, in ranks with one of them a corporal, and they will live two days like they did when it was a working fort. There was a "Major" who came with the program, and the parents (skirb) would assume the "seargant" roles, learning and running the kids through various learning stations, like militia drill instruction, flag signalling, bread baking (a loaf of bread was promised to each soldier in the day, and a special "bake house" was included at the fort. On Angel Island the bakehouse if beautifully restored and working. Worth seeing if you're ever there.

Seargant skirblog was assigned to KP, and I had no idea that I would be not only tending to the giant, iron wood-fired stove, but cooking two meals for the 50 of us. The kid was off being a corporal, and distancing himself from his weird dad, but I had the time of my life. The day was spent prepping the stove, which was also our only source of heat in the building, and assemble and cook a gigantic beef stew. During the day, squads of kids came through and helped peel potatoes, chop carrots, gather firewood, and was dishes. Any hot water had to be heated on my stove taking hours.  I had two massive iron skillets to cook with, each so heavy it nearly took two people to handle. You'd have to put them on the stove  like an hour before using them, so they'd be hot enough.

I surprised myself (and those hungry troops) with a very passable beef stew, plus fresh bread made by the troops in  the bakehouse. I was pretty danged proud of getting that all to happen and it was a decent meal. I mean, I've had worse. The next morning I awoke at 5:30 to cook bacon and eggs for the lot.  Word from the troops was I burned both the bacon and the eggs. How do you burn eggs? One magical moment for me was my decision to sleep outside next to the shore, as opposed to sleeping crammed together with 40 kids on wooden platforms in the barracks. Yes, it was freeeekin' cold that night, but thanks to GM's lovely, high end sleeping bag she graciously lent me, I was extremely comfortable.  When was the last time I slept  outside? I can't recall. It felt safe and brisk and lovely. I heard owls and various scurrying, and the waves lapping all night. I'd look out of my cocoon and see the stars, the lights of Tiburon, San Francisco, Sausalito all around me, and slow, silent ships gliding through the night. Lovely.

75% less wise

2008 comes to skirb with the celebratory yanking of the last three of my remaining wisdom teeth (the first having been yanked about 20 years earlier by the sweet old, Dr. Beers, ancient dentist on Market St, SF, who pulled my tooth using an old-school method he called "the cigarette method," no, not where I got to smoke a cigarette or anything, but where he wiggled my tooth, then took a break, during which time he said they used to go smoke, but now, heh, heh, we just wait, then come back and wiggle it some more.  It worked. He yanked it cleanly with little more than some novacaine.) This time skirb would need to be sedated, (cue Ramones) and preparations would need to be made.

First, the vice skirblog would need to be prepped to assume all blog powers during the time of incapacitation, second, I would need to come to terms with my first time being put under by a general anesthetic. In the past the thought of this terrified me, and has prevented me
from having this exact procedure done over the years when it first became necessary. But, thanks to the magic of Lexapro, which has made many formerly fearsome thoughts manageable and doable to me, I found that the prospect of being knocked out more curious and interesting than scary. Drugs, loss of control, etc. were big ticket anxieties for me. Before the procedure I was to take a Valium and another pill to combat nausea, and down the hatch they went.  30 min. later I felt no more altered than after maybe one and half beers. Then an IV went in and I babbled for about 10 seconds about the holidays and the next thing I knew I was sitting upright in a different room, 75% less wise. Only after-effects were me sleeping the rest of the day and night, then being groggy until about 6pm the day after,  and having three new holes in me fool gulliver.

So yeah, happy new year. I always hope for you and me that the next will be an improvement.

A Zed and Two Naughts

The end of '07 saw a big story right out of the skirb's own notebook: zoo tiger attack/death.  At our own SF Zoo of all places. You of course know my thoughts
about zoos, having heard and enjoyed my podcast, "zoo material" based on my
own misadventures at the SF Zoo. You may also know that as a tot, I was bitten by a baby tiger at the Pittsburgh Zoo. I hate to keep beating the same drum but there are three points I feel need to be re-made about all this:

1). As the chaos theorist in the book, Jurassic Park pointed out: "nature will find a way." While many things about the natural world are known, the immense power of nature isn't understood. It is unknown and strong enough to surmount all of the so called "obstacles" humans think will hold it in sway.

2). There is an equally powerful force called Human Stupidity, which also cannot be dismissed nor surmounted.

the two of these natural forces working in tandem will more than likely lead to disaster, as they did, and are still doing in this case.

And for number 3), why is this such a big story? Because we all know in our hearts that zoos are wrong, and when this is proven true, we pore over the details looking for a way we are right and nature was wrong. But there will not be any. So there you go. The rest of it: taunting or no, lawyers, wall heights, blood trails,  shoe stains, and everything else, will all prove the three rules above to be true.

Other entertaining things at the end of '07 for the skirb?

Movies? Still don't see too many. Did happen upon The Golden Compass and enjoyed the hell out of it. Of course it was panned and disparaged by the critics, but I loved the steampunk production design, and its decision to be subtle, a decision that will always kill you at the box office. (By subtle I don't mean that it isn't overblown and gross in parts, but some of its central ideas are put on the screen and not overly explained to death...). It was hands down better and more entertaining than the Narnia film I can tell you that .

Also caught the Pursuit of Happyness on cable and it was as wrenching and involving as I thought it would be, which is why I didn't nec. rush to see it.  But it was excellent, and happens all in SF, much of it on Bart of all places. I may seek out the book, its such a great story of a man who never gave up, even though every sort of mundane, crappy, stupid luck thing seemed to happen to him. Not the spectacular movie-type of luck, but stuff we all deal with: parking tickets, missed busses, insane rules and paperwork, shoes coming off... But compounded to where Chris existed in a true alternate universe from the San Francisco Financial District world he was working in. A state of homelessness and fear, of living on the brink but outright refusing to let that stop him. It would be interesting to know what the dudes at the investment firm thought upon learning of Chris' "other" life. Amazing.

We lost Kurt Vonnegut in '07 and he was a major influence on my young life. My folks had many of his most well known books lying around house (including the bathroom!) and I read them all at probably much too early of an age. Cat's Cradle, Monkey House, Sirens of Titan, Slaughterhouse Five, Rosewater, Breakfast of Champions, and on. I still consult Welcome to the Monkey House from time to time as should you, esp. for the great "Harrison Bergeron."  I got the urge, learning of his death, to go back to two of his more sci-fi-ish books, Sirens of Titan and Player Piano, and read them again. Piano was a bit too dated in style for me, but does have the great concept of everybody being called a "doctor" of whatever job they did, be it selling real estate or collecting garbage. But Sirens was just great again, lots of fun, acidly satiric,  and really, really anti-religion. There's also its prescient turn having the president of the US as an English-mangling, buffoonish good ol' boy. Eerily Nostradamus-like prediction from Mr. V.

Last year also saw the sad passing of the writer Mark Harris, who's work you are probably familiar with, esp. the great, Bang the Drum Slowly. Mark is my good friend, Henry's father,  and I was fortunate enough to have had many, many occasions to benefit from Harris household's vibe of intellect, art and personality. Harris Sr. was director of the Pitt writing program when I was in high school, and also wrote often for the local papers and magazines. He even mentioned me once in an article, an honor for sure. Seeing both sides of him, the writer and the father, was a major inspiration in my own decision to pursue writing.

At year's ends and beginnings people love making lists. I've had two lists knocking around my laptop for a while now that have nothing to do with the old or new year, but are lists none the less, so that criteria being met I thought I'd share them with you:

Bands that I still listen to as if they're still out there making music, even though they tragically broke up:

Screaming Trees - They rock, they groove, they crush, they shudda been a contender. Still.

Naked Raygun - Relentlessly precise power pop/punk. Probably the closest thing to the Buzzcocks, including the re-formed Buzzcocks to ever come around. Although they chose to self-identify more with Stiff Little Fingers. Both are accurate. Why weren't they the biggest thing ever?

Bis - A trio of very crafty youngsters (at the time) with XTC, hip hop and electronica running through their veins. They shed catchy tunes like dandruff.

Portishead - They keep threatening a new release, but their past, scant, long lamented output still hits a nerve. Or a ball-string as we used to say.

Halo of Flies - Almost did in one release what Naked Raygun did in five.

Honorable Mentions:

Didjits!
Government Issue
Flesheaters

Shoulda left well enough alone, cause well enough was seriously well enough:

Wedding Present
Television
Gang of Four

Never went away:

The Fall
Mission of Burma
Frank Black

Here's another odd and somewhat pathetic list I've had:

Skir's brushes with famous or semi-famous rock and underground rock personalities:

Alice Cooper: When I was around 12, my parents took my sister and me on a trip to NYC, including two Broadway shows: Cats and Dracula, both fantastic spectacles. Dracula starred Frank Langella! and sitting in the audience, it became known, was Alice Cooper. My sister and I were encouraged to approach him to sign our Playbills, an artifact I still possess.

Bought Urge Overkill a drink. In Pgh, they were playing at some place in the Strip Dist. I was having a drink nearby at a horrible place where they served shots in plastic Dixie cups, and The Urge Overkill were also there having a pre-show drink. I went over and professed my undying love and bought them all a Jack Daniels in those Dixie Cups, and we toasted the plastic ness of it all.

Bought Mike Watt a beer at the Electric Banana. I was, I think, babbling to Watt like a blithering idiot. We sat at the bar (something rarely done at the Banana, most drinking down while standing around, or sitting on the wall outside). But the gracious Watt and I had a "bass player only" beer together.

Woke up one morning and Eerie Von from Samhain was sleeping on my couch, his impossibly long legs hanging over the couch end. This was due to being roommates with Mike LaVella.

Answered the phone one day and it was Glen Danzig calling for M. LaVella. See above.

Husker Du slept in my living room (see above) and autographed my copy of Metal Circus." At one point Bob Mould and I banged our big stomachs together. Bob has, of course, lost a ton of weight since then, but I could still bang stomachs with another chubby rocker if I wanted.

Harassed Flipper from my City van. Flipper had just played the night before at the E.Banana and had effectively destroyed most of the atmosphere existing within a 25 mi. radius. The next day I was at work, driving the City Sound Crew Van down the Blvd of the Allies in Pgh, and there was Flipper walking out of the old Howard Johnson's down the street. I veered over and screamed, "FLIPPER!" from the window. They took one look at the city van and went running for their lives down an alley.

Was denied a bass string by Dinosaur Jr.'s Lou Barlow. Those of you who know me have heard this a million times. I played in an SF band called Swollen Boss Toad. We got the gig opening for Dinosaur Jr. at the Kennel Club in SF. I broke an E string on the very first song and didn't have a replacement, and believe me, took a ton of shit for it. Went backstage and Lou was sitting there strumming an acoustic guitar. I asked if he could spot me an E string for my bass and he surprisingly declined, saying I should have had my own replacements. I went back on stage with an A string tuned down and that broke the second I touched it. (I had a pretty heavy hand in the day.) I went backstage again and asked Lou for a string and he said he rather be at home watching TV. This time I got a D string and put it on and it held! Then our guitarist's amp blew up. Like literally blew up, billowing smoke from the speaker and all.

Before a Deerhoof show I spotted Satomi Matsuzaki in the audience. I approached her, shook her hand and gushed my admiration and undying love. She was clearly scared out of her wits.

Shook hands with Lee Renaldo, who had been a member of Rhys Chatham's guitar army during a performance of his at the summer arts festival in Pgh. (Glen Branca was supposed to play. I guess they were interchangeable at the time.) But Renaldo was not the only namesake I met that day, for the formidable Lee Connelly was also in attendance. Lee was also a bass player on the Pgh music scene, and over the years, due to my also being a Lee and a bass player, became known as "Big Lee," which often wasn't specific enough because I was also large, or as a default, "Black Lee" which of course is racist, and un-PC, but wasn't used in that way. Was I known as "White Lee?" or "Jewish Lee?" I doubt it. That was also the day I met Sam Matthews, one of Pittsburgh most famous son's, and many excellent wheels were set in motion for years to come.

not rock and roll, but famous or semi-famous none the less:

Saw Ray Carver read the at-the-time unpublished story, "Feathers" in a tiny conference room at the U of Pgh with probably no more than 30 people crammed into the room. Thanks for this and many other treasured moments to the man, Chuck Kinder. Of course my friend Mike Chabon was also there, and I normally refrain from mentioning him here, cause I don't want to embarrass him. But of course he's famous so gets a big skirblog shout out now. (The dude is scary: pick up Gentlemen of the Road, a classic yarn told using an unfathomable vocabulary. You've not read anything like it before I can guarantee.)

On that note, received an "F" grade in college from famous poet Galway Kinnell in his master poetry class, for handing in a poem called "Sucking up to Galway." I had to do it, believe me. Galway had me in for a little chat, his famous lock of hair refusing to stay out of his face, he was quite unamused. An "F" is hard to get in college. Most of the time you'll get an "incomplete" or something like that. But he made sure the "F" stuck. Later, when I was trying to get into grad school at Pitt, the "F" was like a badge of honor, and so impressed the admissions committee they had to choice but to grant me a full fellowship. So there's some kind of warped lesson there. By the way, even though he was a thoroughly suck (and mostly lit) teacher, Mr. Kinnell ruled as a poet and could destroy an audience when reading his work. I was fortunate enough to be in such an audience, in awe, when Mr. Kinnell's bear mauled us all into bloody stumps.

I think that's about it. If you are a famous and/or semi famous person and have met me and I have failed to include you, please send me a note ASAP and I will correct this. (The famous sci fi author, Jon Armstrong has been mentioned often here, so no need to have your lawyers contact me... again.)

______

To end, again thinking of Mr. Vonnegut (who dropped the "Jr." when his father died):
According to Wikipee, the last lines Vonnegut wrote, in his last book, were:

When the last living thing
Has died on account of us,
How poetical it would be
If Earth could say,
In a voice floating up
Perhaps
From the floor
Of the Grand Canyon,
"It is done."
People did not like it here."

I prefer though to remember the last words of Vonnegut's space and time
traveler, Stony Stevenson:

"Everything was beautiful,
nothing hurt."

Something to aspire to in '08.

blogs will tear us apart

i've gained control

As if my job wasn't dead enough, I found myself drawn recently to three death-themed entertainments: the Fiery Furnaces (of course) song, "Duplexes of the Dead;" the book, "A Brief History of the Dead"  by Kevin Brockmeier; and the film Control about the short life, the suicide of Joy Division's Ian Curtis.  Where to begin with so much happiness?

Well, "Duplexes" is a great song, and still holding up well on the skir-charts. It has worried some due to a lot of backward-sounding guitars in it, as if we're still maybe concerned about "subliminal" messages?  I'm not gonna worry about it so you shouldn't either. The backwards guitar stuff on this is nicely done, and you'll want to hum along, but unless you can hum backwards you're outta luck. I'm practicing though...

The song has a bit of the same vibe as the book Brief History, as it visions an afterlife more mundane than supernatural. The book is a mixed bag. Its one of those "great idea" books, that unfortunately fails on the level of a novel. Here's the cool idea: there is an afterlife where people (or souls) live very normal, everyday lives, living in cities, eating in diners, working jobs, falling in love. The catch is that they only exist as long as a person is alive on Earth who remembers them. Cute, huh? Until some kind of germ warfare breaks out on Earth and wipes out the entire population of the planet -- except one woman, who's memories populate the afterlife. Sounds pretty good, but I was very disappointed with the execution of it. There was a LOT of filler, and a lot of quasi religious boring stuff. Sorry, but I can't recommend it.

The film, Control is the bleakest of the bunch, shot in black and white (being a tragedy of course), nobody's expecting it to have a happy ending. I'm going to claim an especially close and long affiliation with Joy Division, having been floored by them back back back, (but easily five years after Unknown Pleasures was released), around 1984.  At the time I was heavily into heavy music like Birthday Party and learning about American abstract expressionist art of the 40s like Mark Rothko. Joy Division seemed a manifestation of austere, gestural art that flirted with the sublime. The sound of Unknown Pleasures, thanks in large part, we've learned, to producer Martin Hannett, was to me (and my pal Vinny,) the aural equiv. of Rothko or Clyfford Still. I know pretty damn high falutin, but perfect for the 20-something art history, punk rock student. Still sounds that way too. The suicide of Ian Curtis, as has been often noted solidified JD as important "art" complete with its own mythology. There's a very well written article on Pitchfork about them here.

The film Control does dispel a lot of this haughty shit for me. Based on a book by his wife Deborah, Curtis is portrayed as  a kid, a young, moony poet, one with a regular job, and strong, kinda normal, immature teenage feelings. This kind of counters the mind's image of that low, cryptic voice as older, confident, and dark.  The film implies for instance that the song "She's Lost Control" isn't so mysterious, but a direct reference to a woman with severe epilepsy Curtis encountered at work and later learned she died of her seizures. He's horrified because he is stricken with epilepsy himself, in a time when no good treatment seemed available.  His struggle with epilepsy is central to this film and is information I didn't have back in the '80s when I wondered where this music was coming from. Curtis saw himself reflected in the epileptic woman and she scared him to death. Maybe even literally.  Knowing his suicide was coming became rather ponderous at times, like "is this it? is this?" The acting though is uncanny. The actors actually look like their counterparts and do actually play and sing the music, so its a dual triumph. Seeing 24 Hour Party People, a film which re-tells parts of this same story, yet from different angles, is a fun exercise in what is included and what is omitted.  For instance Control dramatizes the perhaps apocryphal story of Curtis being struck with stage fright as the band is playing their opening number, and the singer from Crispy Ambulance (remember them?) is enlisted, or coerced for money, into singing. Party People makes much more of the Sex Pistols/Buzzcocks show in Manchester that spawned JD and so many bands.  Both films seem to denigrate drummer Stephen Morris, who cannot have possibly been as ditzy as both films imply. Could he? I mean is almost invented an entirely new way of post-punk drumming, and married Gilligan Gilbert to boot. How ditzy could he be? There's an interesting scene where Morris is in Hannett's recording studio spraying an aerosol can in time to the music on "She's Lost Control," presumably to get that cool sssh sssh effect. A close listen to the track though leaves me wondering if that happened either.

The movie is a downer, but a good downer. Can't say I liked Samantha Morton's role as the fishwife-y Deborah Curtis, again weird since she's based on the woman who wrote the damn thing, plus I usually like Morton (see Minority Report, Morvern Caller); and also made me wonder what's become of their daughter, Natalie, who was 1 when her dad died. And here's her myspace page. Crazy.

A pleasant and unexpected surprise comes during the credits of Control when the Killer's cover of "Shadowplay" comes up. Its a great decision, as wrong as it is right, it speaks volumes about doing an Ian Curtis biopic in 2007. The song itself is a great cover, re-inventing "Shadowplay" in the Killer's own mold, as a good cover should do, while paying homage to the orig. I nabbed their "Hot Fuss" from lala and can't say their other work is as impressive. But its only been one listen.

This also came on the heels of seeing the documentary, Moog on cable. (I never really believed "Moog" was somebody's name. But there's no denying it now). The film is packed with Moog enthusiasts like Keith Emerson, Rick Wakeman (two fallen heroes of mine), and sports a weird little soundtrack with some Stereolab, and a great one-off song by someone called "Electric Skychurch" called "Endless Horizon." Now this band, or guy, or whatever is almost strictly new age ('newege' coins Penn Gillette), but this song was worth a .99 iTunes download.

Wait. I'm not done with Joy Division! They may have been the second most important band to me after the Who. In college I was completely obsessed with them and their mystique. Didn't we just hate/love that Joy Division famously offered no information at all about them, their songs, their label, on their records? only the austere, Peter Saville covers, beautiful and completely appropriate to the music? You could stare down "Unknown Pleasures" for weeks, hoping some clue would pop out of those wavy lines, yet there was none.  You knew this was the right move, applauded them for it, but were frustrated.  Who were they? What did they look like? Who played what? Lyrics? Forget it. Few bands have this kind of committment to an aesthetic idea.

After "Unknown Pleasures," the 12" single "Atmosphere" did the most damage to me. That song, that slightly desolate, slightly beautiful cover art, crystallized a perfect moment in time, more emotional than can be written about coherently -- by me anyway. But there were others like me, Joy Division adherents in Pittsburgh, (PA's own Manchester) and four of us decided to take matters into our own hands and "form" our own Joy Division.  We arranged a one-shot concert at the Electric Banana. Not a tribute band mind you, not a cover band, just our own Joy Division, with yours truly on vocals. I know, hilarious.  But apart from me, instrumentally, it was a super group: Mark Miller on drums, Steve Heineman on bass, and Vince Curtis on guitar. If these names don't mean anything to you then you didn't live in Pgh during the famous "second wave" of punk rock.  A heady time indeed.

It was not easy covering these songs.  We only gave ourselves a short time to learn a dozen and play them well enough to perform. I, as a chubby, wrong, Ian Curtis was the weakest link. My voice, if you've ever heard it, may be low and scary, but is a far cry from listen-able. Sometimes given the right material it works, but I have certain regrets about the way I handled my end there. I did however parse the lyrics on my own, having no Internet back then (what?!?) or CDs for that matter (are you kidden?!?) Just needle on record over and over again. I came pretty damn close, too, looking back. Anyway, as a concept it was great fun. We made Factory-esque posters announcing Joy Division -- no explanation of course, and there were people out there who thought it was somehow real. We got a big crowd at the Banana, some of whom were pretty damned disappointed I showed up in front of the mic, and that the real Ian Curtis hadn't come back from the dead to play the show. But we had no sympathy for stupidity on that level. Tapes do exist!

I also fooled around with the song "Transmission," cutting it up and splicing in other songs, for no good reason really. I tried to create a band for this song, "Frank Lloyd Wrong" but myspace deleted it due to its unoriginality. However the song, or piece is BACK on the always entertaining DRILL site, HERE. You can also hear how badly I sing on "Your Pollution."

I also own, apart from my coveted "Atmosphere" original Factory 12" single (with its heartbreaking snowy landscape) and the Factory 7" Love Will Tear Us Apart,"  a rather anomalous copy of their 7" "Ideal for Living" which was printed under their first name, "Warsaw." From what i can gather it is a bootleg of sorts, issued post mortem in 1981 from tapes owned by a Manchester label called Chaos Cassettes and "sanctioned" by the band's management (although if you've seen these films, you realize that means nothing). It is a reference to the real 7" from '78, pre-Factory that looked the same but had the name Joy Division instead of Warsaw. The tracks are different too, so it does qualify as a boot. There were only 2000 of them pressed. I seem to remember a dude at Jim's Records in Bloomfield selling it to me for about $3, cause he didn't know what it was, a rare occurrence at Jim's.  The next time I was in, Jim himself gave me a disapproving look but to his credit, didn't press the subject.  For me it was like discovering a Rothko at a yard sale. Sublime.

hold the duchnovies

Hold the duchnovies?

Strike that. Reverse it. X-tra Duchnovies all around. This guy has gone far and wide to shuff off the character chaff he amassed during the x files – at least at skir-central where enjoyment of the film, The TV Set  and the Showtime series, “Californication” abound. Both entertainments sport variants of the same character, the disgruntled WRITER who sells his soul to Hollywood with disastrous personal results. So what’s not to like?

Both Duchnovies flirt dangerously with cliché, but manage to pull out of it, maybe to Duchovny’s credit as an actor. He can manage a complicated ironic performance that, in the reverse of what is often the case, seems real and has weight, knowing of its own irony, as we all often do, yet living in the real world with it. I know, I’m still out there in post-modern land, but forgive me.

TV Set is more comic than “…fornication,” and has a good set of supporting actors including Signorney Weaver’s as the network boss. Usually this role is super cliché, the aggressive, type A++ Ari Gold asshole, right? Who else could head a tv network? but Weaver plays it strong, yet almost naively oblivious, kinda ditzy and likable, yet still manipulates people and gets her own way. Same with his agent, Judy Greer, an actor we liked a lot from the short lived Love Monkey, she too plays it much softer than we expect now from agents. No dis on Ari, we love the Ari.  There’s some great TV satire in it, including a couple of fictional shows called things like “MILF Island,” and “Slut Wars” which get big ratings for the network. Also the line from Weaver that “sex beats gross food any day,” about why Slut Wars is higher rated than “America’s Grossest Meals.”

Californication put me off when it debuted. I wasn’t in the mood(y) for the swaggering ultra-disgruntled, hard drinking, womanizing, smoking, speakin’ da truth to the peoples who don’t want to hear it, writer, named of all things, Hank Moody. The name Californication also had me doubting it initially. Seems like that one would have been used already no? Isn’t it a Chili Peppers disc? Plus does it mean “fuck California?” Of is it just come to Cali and get fucked? Or fuck a lot? Turns out its all those things, and it pretty dang cool. F. was into it from the start, says Hank Moody “is a bad ass.” Well that put me off as well, jealous f’er that I am. Anyone who tries for unknown reasons to write, knows how soon you will be jack shit nobody if you act like Hank Moody. Hey, I wanna go around getting into fights with cell phone talkers and dumb asses, drink and smoke to excess, attract all the wrong beautiful women and say all the wrong offensive (yet bitingly true) things and be admired and loved for it. Fucker.  I ignored half the episodes, and listened to the other half as F watched them while I tried to sleep. Then the last episode came on and it promised to be the most cliché and hateful of them all. Yet it wasn’t. It was f’n hilarious and a bit surprising and I had to sit up and say, what was that?

So now I have to retract my smug, jealous dislike and go back through the entire series on demand. Or on-on demand to be correct. Confusing also is the appearance again of Judy Greer (see above) as a Hoe Orr in one episode.  But she seems to have a heart of gold, so what the hell.  Less confusing is my admiration for the actress Natasha McElhone who had the hard job of floating around Soderberg’s Solaris, looking great, and looks even better here. Again her character is at the edge of cliché, the once had, once lost, unattainable Object Woman, a role that would be extremely irksome if not for this character’s predilection to do dumb, impulsive things, including the whopper of a season ender she pulls off, which I won’t spoil for you if you haven’t seen it. I’m about half way through the re-screening, but this time I’m paying attention, not hating and I’m gonna have to recommend it to you alls.

Some Halloween chaff here:

Pumpkin. The word has a freakin’ “M” in it folks. M. em. Like the word “pump” with a kin on the end. When the fuck did it change to “punkin?” Like a small, cute punk?  Like a kid sneaking into CBGBs? I don’t think it did, yet I hear professional TV types saying “punkin” and seemingly normal, educated peeps out there saying punkin so please stop it in time for next Halloween.

My pumpkins this year had lots of seeds. That is a good sign. Last few years were kinda stingy on the seeds. Fond childhood memory number 14: digging out tons of pumpkin seeds and the folks would roast them and put them in this special glass jar we had for that purpose. I have never been able to recreate those seeds either. I’ve tried a dozen different methods of roasting them too, drying first, not drying, olive oil, no oil. None taste like my memories. But I roasted a big batch while the kid carved and it was fun. They were close, the seeds. Perhaps it was the green glass bowl…

It’s fun to notice the themes the kids choose to represent with their costumes when you see a lot of them in one place. Last year there was still a preponderance of that Edvard Munch-ian elongated ghost face from the Scream Movies.  Those had a good two-year run. But this year, (cue Dream Syndicate) (or Donovan if that’s your bag) it was clearly season of the witch. Hands down, witches ruled. Why? Harry Potter? General witchiness? Hard to say.  I also noticed a mini theme of mutated/decomposed/alien sports ghouls, various sports figures like football players who looked liked they’d been dug up after a few years, or had spent a day or so with the Borg. Why this theme? The Balco scandal? Shaq on TV? Again hard to say.

Also funny I thought were adults’ reactions to other adults in costume. You get your handful of people who dress up on the day before Halloween, and the day of, and go about their business dressed as ‘70s disco dancers, or witches, or mutated sports figures. I like this. Makes the world look as dumb as it really is.  Also dumb is how people try to ignore them. Why are we afraid of people having fun, flaunting their silly side in public one day a year?  We avert our eyes, cast glances downward, shuffle newspapers higher to block the view. Kinda like we act in the public bathroom no? What is the connection?

Still in a bad sway of the Fiery Furnaces. Can’t be helped. There is something somewhat sci-fi about their work, backwards guitars, blips and beeps, surreal narrative. Two years ago I had no defense against Blueberry Boat, and suffered the consequences. Thankfully his year I have an antidote, the great Obliterati. Jeezus. C’mon “Donna Sumeria!” It don’t get much better. What is it about Mission of Burma? Beside the fact that they rule the earth? When I’m mired in the Furnaces’ underworld, MOB brings me out with freshly quarried rock (cliché metaphors .89 a pound at www.skirblog/typepad.com. The music sounds simple, yet flickers with complexity, maybe even defying analysis. Can anybody cover them? I’m still in awe of P. Prescott as a drummer. Thanks to a DVD that came with the disc, we can see four classic songs performed, including the ultra-seminal, one of skirblog’s dessert and desert island tracks, “That’s How I Escaped My Certain Fate,” played live, after all these years, and still kickin’ ass. As one dude on a promo for their documentary sez:  yes they were ahead of their time, in fact they’re STILL ahead of their time.

So much so it made me wanna pound some drums again, maybe in the company of others. To that end I ran an ad on craigslist which has since been deleted, but believe me it was a riot. And strangely, a bunch of South Bay dudes were brave (dumb) enough to take the bait. They had two really major things going for them: 1) a name I didn’t immediate hate: The Atomic Love Bombs, (unlike half of these ad posters and answerers; and 2) they were pretty flippin’ good! (unlike the other half…) So we got together for an audition. While we decided not to make a go of it, I still have to send a you to their myspace page, ‘cause the dudes have it, Black Rebel MC – ish type  of stuff: check them out here, and wish them well. They’ve already shown astute decision making prowess by not having me sit at their drum kit, disturbing their rhythms.

Question: is there a coffee shop in the East Bay without flies?

My association with Lala.com has been paying off rather nicely lately. Apart from the Obliterati, I just got discs by the Breeders and the Amps, remember them? two Kim Deal projects from back in the dark ages, that I’ve been enjoying here now in the really dark ages. Also one of Roger Miller’s Birdsongs of the Mesozoics came, (I think there are a good dozen or so of them) and its quality good stuff. I gotta say I love that Breeder’s song, Cannonball, and, as is now traditional, got over to Yinztube to see the old viddy for it.  Its there. Here. You’ll remember that Kim Deal makes herself look as unglamorous and nasty as she possibly can, yet she has beautiful eyes and an attractiveness that is in there somewhere, sometimes echoed in her sister, Kelly, sometimes not. And she does make this one tiny move for like just a second in the video that kills me every time, watch for it, she’s dressed in a dumb costume in front of a mirror and during the chorus goes hips side to side in what can only be described as, sorry Kim, cute.  I will also rememberize now that magic time we got to see the Pixies at the Decade in Pgh, a small, small bar that had no sightlines or sound or good beer or food –  exactly what you want from your rock estab., and was kinda hypnotized by Kim Deal and her eyes. So much so that the music (Pixies first tour) ($3 to get in) got into my head without my permission, and stayed there for a fuck of a long time. Eyes.

So I have asked several questions here: do you want Duchnovies with that? Why is Mission of Burma so good? What is the connection between Halloween costumes and public bathrooms? What’s the deal with Kim? (get it, deal...) And more importantly, is there a coffee shop in the East Bay that sports internet, hopefully free, is worth hanging out in, and is without flies? Rhetorical of course, all of them.

blogs of men

Children of Men:  been analyzing this one for a while now. Saw the DVD a while back, and was mightily impressed. Then picked up the book, anxious to read the source material for such a rich and layered film. Turns out that the film is an almost complete departure from the book, only takes the setting, some of the general premise and the names of the characters and goes from there. One interview I read with director and screenwriter Alfonse Curon said that he didn't read the book, but another article said he did. Obviously he did, but maybe didn't read it or refer to it while he was writing his screenplay, probably so he wouldn't be too tied to it.  Curon also states that Clive Owen had much writing input as well. So Clive's the man, cause he rules in this film.

I had trouble with the book, not being dazzled by it like I was the film. I kept looking for the film
in the book and it wasn't there. But after I gave up on the fact the two were totally ifferent
stories, I was able to enjoy the book on its own terms. All said and done, I kinda hate to say it, but the book's not as good as the movie. How often does that happen? Curon, like any good rock star, essentially covered the book, or took the spirit and ideas from a book, and transformed it totally into a new vision, better, deeper, more relevant than the first, in the often brilliant way a band will cover a song, making it wholly their own, quoting the original, but adding something new and good to the world.

I had another look at the film, having fun this time seeing what was absorbed from the book and what was altered.  It's funny because the book is not very menacing throughout, yet ends rather cynically and harsh, while the film is gritty and very political and heavily morose throughout, yet ends with dim, yet joyous hope.  Characters have been completely re-imagined, yet have the same names as their book-counterparts. So it's a fascinating process. I really wonder what PD James thought of the adaptation.

Also perhaps worth noting is the addition of article "the" to the book's title. PD James has it "The Children of Men." If it's a quote from your favorite book, the Bible, sez Wikipedia: Psalm 90: "…Thou turnest man to destruction; and sayest, Return, ye children of men." Which is part of a lament to God about human mortality, the cycles of life, etc.  As you may know about me, I can get fixated on one word choice like this, as I did in my Herman Melville essay. Why did PD James add the "the" and Curon leave it off? The difference of writing "The Children of Men," vs. "Children of Men" may be significant. "The" adds emphasis to the word 'children;' where the absence of "the" gives the entire phrase equal weight. James, in her book, emphasizes the actions and decisions of two protagonist male characters that wield power throughout. Their decisions, largely having to do with individual  and collective guilt, effect the whole of "humanity." In the film, these same patriarchs are rewritten, one as a reluctant action hero, without the very heavy guilt of his book-counterpart (in the book, Theo accidentally kills his own infant daughter, destroying his marriage and his conscience; in the film, Theo's child (a boy!) dies from illness). So the film, sans "the" is less about two men, and more about the what has become of the human race, the waxing and waning of humanity regardless of the "men" there to direct it, and perhaps more true to the Bible quote. Again odd, since James, a woman, writes a very patriarchal outcome, while Curon, male, gives the power to revive humanity to its mother.

Don't you wish I was back in grad school and could take out my deconstructions there where nobody gives a rat's ass, rather than here, where… well.  Anyway…

Another dude who goes his own way is the writer, George Saunders, who's had at least two (that I've read) brilliant, bizarre stories in New Yorker, Com Com, and Civil War Land in Decline. Sister sent over (yo! Politics and Prose! Whazzup?) his collection In Persuasion Nation, which includes "Com Com" and maybe two or three others that absolutely kill. The collection is uneven, some of the stories don't make sense to me, but that's not nec. a bad thing when the others are so good. In fact I like it when authors I like put out something I don't. Makes them human, normal. I was anticipating some good shit from Saunders on his podcast over at old friends, KQED Writer's Block, but alas, all too human I'm afraid…

Fall is also usually a time when I go ape shit for the Fiery Furnaces. I remember a couple of falls ago, two to be exact I was smitten, then re-smitten with the great "Blueberry Boat." Since the Boat, it's been a mixed bag from those two. "Rehearing my Choir" and "Bitter Tea" had some good stuff, but didn't a hold sway on me (line from their new one...) But that's all in the past. This Fall saw the release of "Widow City" and the Furnaces are BACK! I am way into this one folks. It has supplanted, finally, the Heartless Bastards in the brainspace and is vying for attention with Mission of Burma's "Obliterati" which just showed up from Lala. Obliterati is good too, freaking crazy good. But the Furnaces stick and hold. They get under my skin, play in my brain at dusk and dawn. Perhaps because this release, like the Boat, is a puzzle, a narrative, a problem, while also being great pop, rock and prog music. Like the Boat, these songs overlap and refer to each other, create their own weird world and live in it. The drumming on Widow City really needs props (did I just write "props?" shit…) however props are indeed needed and are given freely to drummer Robert D'Amico, who doesn't turn up a lot in Google except with reference to the Furnaces, and a band called "Set on Stun" which bears checking out for gratuitous Trek reffing, plus a pretty breathless review from these guys: Check 'em all out. Skirblog, working those links so you don't have to…

A few posts ago I mentioned I was seeing a lot of fast moving bald guys. My good bud, Ron H, up there in WA State sent down the following possible explanations for this phenomena:

"As something of an expert on bald guys myself, let me explain (from MY perspective) the
reasons why these bald guys are moving fast:

1.  On a sunny day, they move fast in hopes of dodging those slow-moving UV rays.

2.  On rainy days, they gotta get outta the rain 'cause the "SPLAT" sound made by fat raindrops when they hit the bald head could be pigeon poo and not rain at all, which makes a guy REALLY nervous.

3.  If you move fast, the good-lookin' babes might only notice that you're moving fast and miss the fact that you're bald.

4.  You have to move fast to catch your hat when the wind has blown it off.

So that explains it then.

bird is the word

Several weeks ago, all around good guy, writer, editor, musician and Renaissance man, Jeff Johnson stopped by with his colleague Jessica to record me yakkin’ about my job. It was, if I were to believe them, a project for “the radio group” a club or organization they belong to that had vague parameters and kinda mumbled descriptions. But ask not for credentials, I always say, and you will rarely be disappointed.

Many good things came of this session. For one, after it was all edited and fixed, they made me sound somewhat coherent, never an easy task (I'll try to post the finished product sometime).

Two, they put this great music behind me, Brightblack Morning Light, which haunting and beautiful, I went through about three weeks of listening to nothing else but. (side note: BB Morning Light does what many feel is impossible, or maybe improbable this far into the rock idiom: create their own, signature sound. It always amazes me, that using the same instruments and structures as everybody else, in this case mostly a Fender Rhodes electric piano done up with echo, etc., and a crash cymbal also done up nicely, and of course guitar bass drums; slowing things down, harmonizing, every song sounds exactly like… them.)

And a third, perhaps more revelatory thing for me, was an epiphany of sorts after I’d been asked about getting to and from my job. (People seem to think my job is “interesting,” and I guess it is in a morbid kind of way.  Really it’s only interesting on its skin, or the fact that I do it, once I begin to explain it, all conversations and interest tend to stop…dead.) So I’d just explained to Jeff and Jessica how I commute by driving from Oakland to the Ferry, crossing the Bay, and walking the 20 minutes down Mission or Market St to death notice central.  I find this commute very useful when I’m returning, because by the time I’ve walked back through town, had a 20 minute ferry ride and driven another 20 minutes to my house, I’ve managed to slough off most of the residue of sadness and tension that gather around me during the day.

Jeff’s comment about all this was, “you have a very mythological commute.”

“Huh?” I said.

“You know, Charon, the ferryman from Hades, ferries newly dead souls across the river Acheron to Hades.  And then there’s Lethe, the river of forgetfulness, where souls drink before being reincarnated.”

“Wow,” said I.

How did this happen, a mythological commute?  The way the best things seem to happen, unintentionally and because they are needed. I think about Charon and Lethe often now when I’m being ferried from the inferno of San Francisco, and the transformation that hopes to occur along the way... so that I may forget.

Tequila also helps in this.
Which I think is avail. on the ferry. I know they have beer and wine and Jack Daniels.

By the way, my interviewer, Jessica plays drums, or did until last month anyway, in a band called the Pillows. It seems they’ve gone dark now.
Also speaking of defunct bands, seems Myspace unceremoniously took down my Frank Lloyd Wrong site (no email, no phone call, no condolence card). I think its because another band is already using that name. They've had it longer, so no hard feeling from me. I'll figure something out, not that anybody went there and listened to Franks sound collage anyway so whathehell...

Sometimes we must sacrifice forgetfulness for speed, as was the case last Sunday when Bart was the preferred form of ferrying cross the Bay (under it really, but we def. do not want to think about that!) for the kiddo and I to catch one of our favorite bands ever, the Heartless Bastards, play for free in Golden Gate Park. F was busy, as she always is, and was heart SICK to miss them. And us her!  This was part of the manic, unwieldy named “Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival.” Now there were dozens of worthy non bluegrass bands and legends and icons playing there, but we were only interested in our Heartless Bs’. So it was Bart (with our long lost friends, the Goblets, remember them? as escorts); then a classic SF Muni (I call it Mutiny. Aren't I hilarious?) bus ride on a packed, smelly, late, lurching, poorly driven 5 Fulton all the way down to the stage. We rolled off that thing gasping for air and clutching our kishkies.

It was to be the kid’s first real rock show too. How about that? Not bad for a 10 year old.

A band called the Sadies played first and many, many people were on their feet for that one.  When the HBs finally took the stage, most people, ignorant philistines that they are, left. But that gave us room to move right on up to the stage (kid’s idea). And there they were, the most unassuming power trio from Ohio in history. Wow! What a treat we thought. They started playing and it wasn’t all smooth sailing for them unfortunately, due to some guitar cord problem. Usually this kind of thing is easily remedied by one of the half dozen or so DUDES standing around wearing dark glasses, headphones and Stage Crew passes around their constantly lit cigarettes. Go up, swap out the cord. But no, this was not in the cards. Another song, more problems, no guitar, which is a problem when there is only one guitar and it pretty much holds down the giant fort which is their sound.  Erika, who up close resembles a younger, shorter Lucinda Williams, became quite upset and understandably so, since nobody would lift a finger to help her.  I was ready to jump on the stage myself and jiggle the damn cord, as I had years of experience doing similar jiggling as soundman extraordinaire for several civic institutions and punk bands.  I didn’t think she would recover, that’s how bad it was, but no, she is ERIKA from the Heartless Bastards, plus she is from OHIO and has seen 1000 times worse things in her life. She pulled it together and did something to fix things, and destroyed the rest of the set, which by the end had bluegrassers and punkers and even 10 year olds and 45 year old dads bopping around like idiots. That’s what I mean by rock and roll.

Let’s see. I saw Ultraviolet about six more times and feel it is really being overlooked as a major piece of American (/Chinese) modern art. Plus Milla Jovovich is killing me in this, especially when she does not speak. Although she does have one, and only one good talking part on the roof of the Blood Chinois controlled tower, just before she lets two dozen Chinese gangsters kill each other. But I belabor the point.

Other major excitement has been a visit from nationally known famous science fiction writer, Jon Armstrong, author of Grey, who was in town, family and entourage in tow. To better show off the City we love to hate by the Bay, we arranged a special tour with Sarcasm West, a one-man outfit that showed family Armstrong (including ultra cute little one) the sights and smells of San Francisco while also managing to effectively disparage everything at the same time. Niiiice…

One rule that Sarcasm West insists on is during your visit in the big, mostly hostile city, when you are crossed by various civilians, as you will doubtlessly be, whether on the roads or on the sidewalks, that instead of flipping them off, or returning their birds, as is traditional, esp. if you hail from Queens, that you instead, flip them the peace sign.  At first it is a difficult concept to grasp, corny sounding and wrong, but with some practice (and a touch of irony) can be a ton of fun.  The peace sign cannot be wielded in anger either, like a bird with two fingers. You must show peace and mean it.  It helps to say something like “peace out man,” or “peace, baby.” You’d be surprised at how quickly this diffuses various road rages and shopping mall rages. Not that it turns your aggressor into a tree hugging peacenik, on the contrary, they will still probably respond to your peace sign with an even bigger and giant F-YOU and jam their middle finger around crazily with much invective and slobbering. But for you, you can only laugh at the sight of it, you realize how ridiculous it all is, and you are taken out of the aggression loop.

So intriguing is this, that I’ve been experimenting with the peace sign myself and to excellent results. You can peace sign people who cut you off, who don’t let you merge, who knock you out of the way so’s they can get somewhere AHEAD OF YOU! Right? Isn’t that the game. Not to reach some destination, but to pass people, to get there first.  Flash these folks the peace.  Some are just baffled by it and speed off in a huff of aggression and confusion. Some are challenged by it and foam at the mouth, but look stupider and stupider the angrier they get when all you’re doing is saying “peace, man.” Plus bystanders will laugh at both of you, making the Type-A (holes) feel even stupider. And some people *gasp* even smile at you.  But be prepared.  The kid and I happened to be driving behind two church going ladies last Sunday, dressed up in their Sunday best, looking for a space in front of the Church, who suddenly decided to jam their car in reverse and drive backwards, regardless of the fact that we were there.  They let us have it too, not believing we'd be in their way, when they were TRYING TO GET TO CHURCH goddamn it all to hell and back again! And they held forth with some very ugly and un-Christian language and facial expressions, which, under severe strain and holding back were countered with a big ol’ peace sign from me, which nearly caused them to explode in satanic, vein popping rage. But us? We were laughed our asses off as we calmly went around them (and immediately found an excellent parking spot...)

The kid suggested another tactic: carry around a hand mirror, and every time somebody flips you off, hold the mirror up. Not only will they then be flipping themselves off, but will see how lovely they look doing it.   Is my kid not brilliant? Takes after his mom no doubt.

 

family fun blog

The big news in the skirblog family, or should I say the family of skir-produced entertainments, is a brand new addition to our giant corral of talented recording artists, Frank Lloyd Wrong, a solo producer/sound collagist hailing from Zanesville, OH, but currently working out of (my garage in) Oakland, CA. Frank offers us his first release from his upcoming full length, “Running Water,” entitled, “Listen to the Silence.” Frank challenges you to recognize all the samples and post them here on the skirblog. The winner receives a giant cantilevered home somewhere in Pennsylvania.

And while I’m on the subject of our stable… Thousands write in asking about the identity of The Drill, heard exclusively on myspace.com/zadrill. The Drill is actually four people, although I dont' know their genders. I really just send them their royalty checks each month, and did contribute some guest vocals to their first single, “molar” (now taken down from myspace, the bastards), which I recorded via a cell phone from my lair in Oaktown. There four list their instruments as drums, bass, vocals and something called a cuspidor. As far as I know, they are a quartet disgruntled dental hygienists out of Los Angeles, who if they didn’t get their aggressions out with their music would certainly be taking it out on the sensitive gum tissue of their patients. If you can believe their press releases. My intuition tells me they are upstanding professionals who may dip into the doctor’s pharm. closet after hours, yet would never hurt a flea nor extract a gold filling for beer money while you were sedated in a million years. But I’ve never met them in person or while conscious. 

Then there’s my literal family, the family of skir, who were talking one a.m. over breakfast, sitting 'round the family b'fast table, as we are wont to do on the Sunday's, and the kid posited the hypothetical, “what if you were on a desert island, what celebrity would you want with you?” We then expanded this to mean any famous person living or dead mainly because F. wanted to choose Frida Kahlo and Jim Morrison. The kid went for Matt Groening and Leonardo Davinci (he thought maybe Lenardo could build us something to escape with…) while I went for the obvious: Pete Townsend and James Joyce. I know, cliché, but had to be. We then went to the next logical topic, what would we eat, esp. if we could only have two foods? F ruminated a while on various lobster and pasta dishes: lobster fettuccini, lobster ravoli, but settled on just plain lobster then garlic bread as her second. This was strange to me cause I can’t remember seeing her eat lobster too many times in my life, although she does go for the crab (cakes and soft shelled) often and with gusto. The kid chose Jack in the Box Bacon Ultimate Cheeseburger and a chocolate fountain – speaks for itself; and I was forced to go with Mineo’s pizza from the 'burgh, and what else? coffee, as long as I could have my Francis Francis X3 with me and milk. Turns out we were allowed to share our food with each other so a great, imaginary feast ensued. But what to listen to? To watch? You could only got one thing on this island and F already had Jim Morrison for various pleasures (damn. I forgot to choose a woman celeb!), so she went with Flight of the Conchords. The kid skipped not a beat choosing The Simpsons, and I went strait for Led Zeppelin.

Led Zeppelin? Well, you read what I had to say about Black Dog a few posts ago. (Didn’tja? Huh, huh?) A ball breaking, ball busting, ballsy bit of music.  Right about that time I read an article about a CD trading website called lala.com. Also about this time I was packing up about 200 frickin’ CDs in a box and thinking about throwing them over one of our beautiful Bay Area bridges as I raced across in my car, ‘cause I never play or look at them any more as they’ve all been ABSORBED into the pod! ‘Cept lala says you can list all your absorbed and lonely CDs on their site, and at them same time, list all the great CDs you’d like to get and absorb, and they’ll send you some prepaid envelopes ala Netflix. This all happens for about $1 a CD, and beats the hell outta heaving them over a bridge or taking them to Amoeba and then having to spend a zillion hours looking around for trades... Plus what? Am I gonna go to Amoeba and actually buy actual Zeppelin CDs? You can bet not. So just like the underwear shopping, I can assuage my guilty pleasures privately, online, and since all my Zep exists as vinyl or the occasional illegal download, I was in hog heaven. Right away "Houses of the Holy" and "Physical Graffiti" (disc 1) show up, and both have been very, very good for skir-morale. Right now its “The Song Remains the Same,” that’s killing me, but you know, Custard Pie, The Rover, Time of Dying are all in there waiting. Trampled Under Foot and Kasmir still pack their wallops but don’t sound so new and fresh to me right now. Funny though, a lot of this Zeppelin sounds raw and wild to my current ear. When I think back to the day, I imagine all the bloated cock-rock was so polished and produced, but the Zep has a lot of raw edges and simple production. The drums are almost refreshingly straight foward and brilliant in many cases, even though Bonham is always shown in photos buried under giant kits of cascading drums and cymbals on all sides. Jones isn’t as good as I remember, Page is beyond any dumb, oldster hyperbole I could offer up here, and Plant is comically, appropriately entertaining. Dude sings like a girl. Actually, hold the phone. I started to notice a lot of similarities between Zeppelin and Deerhoof of all things: crazy high pitched girl singing, hitting impossibly notes; guitar savagery; savant drumming. There you go, Deerhoof are indeed the new Zeppelin.

Still unpatiently waiting for Physical Graffiti flipping disc 2 to arrive via lala, and of course: Zep III.

Hey m aybe if you get on lala, you’ll be lucky enough to score my copy of the first Neil Young Bridge Benefit CD, where a lot of luminaries bang out the best Neil Young songs ever. Yeah Nick Cave does kind of a predictable "Helpless," but you may like it; and you’ve got your Flaming Lips doing "After the Goldrush" (but before they got good); Dinosaur Jr. and Bongwater puttin’ in some nice efforts; but the real gems are the Pixies doing "Winterlong," Sonic Youth doing "Computer Age," (what a computer age it was back in '89..." and maybe the most inexplicable and wrong cover ever, Psychic TV doing "Only Love Can Break Your Heart," and doing it totally straight and seriously I might add, which makes it all the more eerie and frightening.

Didja know the skirblog has a sister? I told you she was born 1.5 years after me to the day, remember? So she works over at the famous Politics and Prose book shoppe over in Wash, DC. HI SISTER! She tells me that for no possibly good reason, the folks there are friends of the skirblog and perhaps loyal readers. So a big shout out to yinz over there. Sorry you’ve all got nothing better to read, and you've resorted to the s-blog, but there’s your Internet for you, destroying all that used to be good and holy in the world. I welcome you.

fall or fire

The first slanted light of Fall