Yesterday was my birthday. I celebrated in the usual fashion: cake, Thanksgiving, shopping. There was band practice and brunch, then, later, a perfectly-sized gettogether (pronounced: ghetto leather). Earlier this weekend there was another party, this one a themed costume soiree, which I attended without bothering to dress up, a fact of no small concern to several.
I also saw the Tiger Lillies and sang Monday, Monday at a karoke bar.
Today I should be sleeping. Sleeping the sleep of the unslept. Jesus.
Thanks, though, to everybody for everything. It was great.
10.29.2007
10.22.2007
The refresh rate was periously low
Over the weekend, I went to Whiskey Creek, which really ought to be a euphemism (feel free to start) but is actually a place located on the far edges of the state. It was beautiful there, the setting untouchable; the company was glorious, old and new friends all; and the cumulative effect of both was, for those that believe in such things, a clean aura or, for those that don’t, a refreshed mind and body.
I drove out through heavy rains. Many people don’t like piloting through wet sheets, but I’m the anomaly; there were points, however, on the two lane roads that ink Washington’s lesser traveled paths, where I started to re-think my position, as driving with little to no visibility is a flight plan to disaster. But as a trained pilot I had little to fear.
It was midnight when I pulled up outside the cabins. It was morning one day later when I left. Here’s a smattering of what happened in between.
The rest of the pictures are here.
I drove out through heavy rains. Many people don’t like piloting through wet sheets, but I’m the anomaly; there were points, however, on the two lane roads that ink Washington’s lesser traveled paths, where I started to re-think my position, as driving with little to no visibility is a flight plan to disaster. But as a trained pilot I had little to fear.
It was midnight when I pulled up outside the cabins. It was morning one day later when I left. Here’s a smattering of what happened in between.
The rest of the pictures are here.
10.18.2007
Hate/Love
Things I hate:
Pants with a button fly. I do not need a puzzle box for my privates. On the other hand, these trousers do make me look thin, tall, and suave. An effect that will surely be ruined the very moment I have to spend three minutes in the men’s bathroom staring at my crotch trying to close my pants.
Faucets with no knobs, only motion sensors. Running my hand around the lip of the sink looking for the recessed button to turn on the hot water not only defeats the purpose of the motion sensor, but infuriates me as to the progress of motion sensors in these United States. We are the greatest nation of lazy people ever and if this is the best we can do to eliminate the need to twist on and off a knob, well then folks, I don’t want it.
The rain when I have to stand in it. My birthday is on the way, someone buy me the kind of bubble technology the Jetsons used to keep Elroy dry. Doesn’t exist? Invent it.
Mass transit. Why can’t I decide where we go and who we pick up? This bus would be so much awesomer if we had a fat, judgmental man working the door, keeping all the uggos on the street where they belong. Those dumb drivers let anyone on.
All of these things impact me at my new job, which is Meg’s old job. I’m the new Meg, which is one misplaced finger away from being a whole new me.
Moving. I’ve done a shitton of this lately. I’m no longer down. Although I own a truck, I must now already owe you a favor before I am willing to schlep anything I cannot keep. If you are willing to risk loosing possessions to me, I am more than willing to take your things anywhere you like.
Things I love:
The End Times. You know, that band I play in? Yeah, well, we’re playing again Monday at the High Dive. Please come and bring friends. The High Dive is cavernous if empty.
My new apartment—which also used to be Meg’s—is amazing: a huge studio with a view of the skyline. I’ve been lighting it at night with candles and listening to women’s choirs and falling in love with being in the city. It’s quite beautiful and I’ll invite you all over for a drink once I get all the rest of my things—the forgettable ephemera of my existence—off the floor and into the back of my newly christened storage closet.
Christmas songs. If you had asked me two months ago, in what would surely have to be the tertiary stages of the clap, if I like Christmas songs, I would have said to you: no. No, I do not like Christmas songs (Except for Carol of the Bells. That song is crazy beautiful, like Kirsten Dunst on a Latino boy). But somehow I’ve found myself in a Christmas cover band (with girl group harmonies and everything) and we’re set to play the Blue Moon Tavern on Christmas Eve. Please come and bring friends. The Blue Moon is horribly depressing if the only friendly thing there is a PBR tallboy.
You. Yes, you, my friends, dear readers, and humble hitch-hikers on this low-traffic backwater two lane. I’ve been incommunicado for a while, but I’m working on re-establishing ties and returning calls and all those other things that normal, functioning people do. Please do not abandon all hope in regards to me yet.
Pants with a button fly. I do not need a puzzle box for my privates. On the other hand, these trousers do make me look thin, tall, and suave. An effect that will surely be ruined the very moment I have to spend three minutes in the men’s bathroom staring at my crotch trying to close my pants.
Faucets with no knobs, only motion sensors. Running my hand around the lip of the sink looking for the recessed button to turn on the hot water not only defeats the purpose of the motion sensor, but infuriates me as to the progress of motion sensors in these United States. We are the greatest nation of lazy people ever and if this is the best we can do to eliminate the need to twist on and off a knob, well then folks, I don’t want it.
The rain when I have to stand in it. My birthday is on the way, someone buy me the kind of bubble technology the Jetsons used to keep Elroy dry. Doesn’t exist? Invent it.
Mass transit. Why can’t I decide where we go and who we pick up? This bus would be so much awesomer if we had a fat, judgmental man working the door, keeping all the uggos on the street where they belong. Those dumb drivers let anyone on.
All of these things impact me at my new job, which is Meg’s old job. I’m the new Meg, which is one misplaced finger away from being a whole new me.
Moving. I’ve done a shitton of this lately. I’m no longer down. Although I own a truck, I must now already owe you a favor before I am willing to schlep anything I cannot keep. If you are willing to risk loosing possessions to me, I am more than willing to take your things anywhere you like.
Things I love:
The End Times. You know, that band I play in? Yeah, well, we’re playing again Monday at the High Dive. Please come and bring friends. The High Dive is cavernous if empty.
My new apartment—which also used to be Meg’s—is amazing: a huge studio with a view of the skyline. I’ve been lighting it at night with candles and listening to women’s choirs and falling in love with being in the city. It’s quite beautiful and I’ll invite you all over for a drink once I get all the rest of my things—the forgettable ephemera of my existence—off the floor and into the back of my newly christened storage closet.
Christmas songs. If you had asked me two months ago, in what would surely have to be the tertiary stages of the clap, if I like Christmas songs, I would have said to you: no. No, I do not like Christmas songs (Except for Carol of the Bells. That song is crazy beautiful, like Kirsten Dunst on a Latino boy). But somehow I’ve found myself in a Christmas cover band (with girl group harmonies and everything) and we’re set to play the Blue Moon Tavern on Christmas Eve. Please come and bring friends. The Blue Moon is horribly depressing if the only friendly thing there is a PBR tallboy.
You. Yes, you, my friends, dear readers, and humble hitch-hikers on this low-traffic backwater two lane. I’ve been incommunicado for a while, but I’m working on re-establishing ties and returning calls and all those other things that normal, functioning people do. Please do not abandon all hope in regards to me yet.
9.01.2007
8.28.2007
To everyone who was there on Saturday night, thanks. I don't think we've ever had such a wondrous reception; perhaps packing the place with friends and relations really was the way to go.
Many many thanks to KEG for filling Kate's living room with high kicks and kickass badassery and to Hey Marseilles--or, more specifically, Phil, Nick, and Matt--who figuratively filled the house with song. It was literally awesome.
In the weekend's wake comes fresh and exciting news: The End Times is pleased to announce they will take the stage this Saturday, 9 p.m. sharp at The Mars Bar alongside Hazelwood Motel, Tucson's own The Golden Boots, and Mike Dumovich.
Furthermore, The End Times accepted KEG's gracious offer and will appear before him, you, and God at the Rendezvous on October 3rd. If that wasn't enough (and it isn't), The End Times will play The High Dive on October 22 as part of Nadamucho's New Music Mondays. Please mark your calendars accordingly.
Those of you in Bellingham who might fear that I've forgotten and forsaken you, quake not. I'll be appearing as part of this little piece o' brilliance:
As a proud member of Irrelevant Prophets, I'll be there to lend a bit of class and a bass line or two. Come and check it, yo. Do.
Many many thanks to KEG for filling Kate's living room with high kicks and kickass badassery and to Hey Marseilles--or, more specifically, Phil, Nick, and Matt--who figuratively filled the house with song. It was literally awesome.
In the weekend's wake comes fresh and exciting news: The End Times is pleased to announce they will take the stage this Saturday, 9 p.m. sharp at The Mars Bar alongside Hazelwood Motel, Tucson's own The Golden Boots, and Mike Dumovich.
Furthermore, The End Times accepted KEG's gracious offer and will appear before him, you, and God at the Rendezvous on October 3rd. If that wasn't enough (and it isn't), The End Times will play The High Dive on October 22 as part of Nadamucho's New Music Mondays. Please mark your calendars accordingly.
Those of you in Bellingham who might fear that I've forgotten and forsaken you, quake not. I'll be appearing as part of this little piece o' brilliance:
As a proud member of Irrelevant Prophets, I'll be there to lend a bit of class and a bass line or two. Come and check it, yo. Do.
8.23.2007
And then we drove.
Sitting behind Jim Diamond, I can't help but envy him. Teen nymphs cavort beneath his fingers as he turns the pages of the pornographic magazines we've brought him as part thank-you gift, part gag (the reflex of which these girls apparently don't have). Over the monitors, Kate is singing, overdubbing her "scratch" vocals from the first run through. She sounded good the first time and now, after a couple belts of whiskey, is deeper into the song, pushing back as it pulls her forward. If you do it right, music makes a first-rate seasickness.
Ghetto Recorders, Jim's studio, is behind a non-descript door right around the block from what was, up to three weeks ago, the State Theater, but is now the Filmore, having been bought out by LiveNation, a proud if quiet member of the Clear Channel conglomerate. Actually, the door is not so much anonymous as it is forbidding, death black paint chipped and graffitied. Terribly metal.
The studio is up a flight of stairs, through what might best be described as a Green Room punctuated with a fish tank, past a conference room/dining hall and a kitchen pulled straight from the '50s, up another five steps and then into the recording room proper. A former chicken processing plant, the room itself is huge, its edges filled with a random assortment of instruments, amps, and music ephemera.
Outside the control room Kate has reached the end of the song, her voice a leaf in the chill wind of Fred's and my guitars. Poetics aside, it sounds rather spectacular, especially when run through a few vintage compressors onto 2" tape.
While listening to playback, I consider seppuku, the ancient Japanese art of saving face by killing yourself. Playback is tortuous, like losing an argument by having your own words tossed back at you, all snide and poorly said. The band is taking notes on what slide sounds best; my opinion is, in general, neither, but since, you know, we have to choose, the second attempt continues to be the better.
I need to stop smoking cigarettes. But how can I, when they taste so good? Also, between yesterday and the narrative now, I've finished most of a fifth of vodka, and nothing peaks the experience of an enjoyably woozy drunk like the filtered chemicals of a Camel 100. It is not fancy, the things I do.
Maybe I should stop drinking instead. But cold turkey is such a noonday dish, and it's Friday night in Detroit.
It was Chicago that welcomed me first. Having taken off work early (I make bookmarks, by the way. I used to be an Editor, but this pays more; I'm moving either up or down in the literary world, but I think I'm too close to judge the direction), I got dropped off at the airport three hours early, time I spent behind sunglasses, between headphones, and with mouth full of pizza. Sbarro. It was...carbohydrate rich.
Southwest, it turns out, actually offers decent snacking materials: a Nabisco sponsored box of peanuts, raisins and, the cherry, crackers and cheese. Topped off with a styrofoam eight-ounce of gram-ground coffee, it's less the usual threat than an implied taunt.
To land at Midway--an airport consistently overshadowed and overflown by O'Hare--we have to travel against the sun and through a thunderstorm. As a former Midwesterner, it's thunderstorms I miss most; after the turbulence, all I miss is flying through them. Thunderstorms are awesome in the biblical sense: bigger and more dangerous than you, ready and possibly deitically willed to smite you. If you can't respect them as beautiful natural occurences, at least fear them as spirit guides more than willing to steer your knife-wielding hand toward an ungrounded socket.
I landed in my suit (which, in case you were wondering, I was wearing when I got on the plane), insuring that my fellow travelers gave me commensurrate space and due dilligence, which is to say that no one gave a shit. Midway is in the middle of one of the poorer neighborhoods of Chicago -- Dave Chappelle: "Liquor store, liquor store, gun store, liquor store...yo, man, where we going?"
Into Lillydale was the answer, as that's where my friend Sarah lives with her roommate Amy. Two in the morning is not a high traffic time for Illinoisian commuters, so we arrive twenty-some minutes later at a familiar-looking apartment building two turns from a Jewel Osco.
The next day, Sarah gives me the tour. We pass through eight suburbs within six city blocks before we park in Naperville's posh downtown. Naperville, so Sarah tells me, is the Nation's safest city. They perform background checks before they allow anyone to move in, a gated community without the fence. One of the reasons why people move and feel safe there is the riverwalk, a five mile walkabout around the local river. The river itself is shallow, carpeted with rocks and frequented by ducks.
Nobody has ever attributed to me that charm they call "grace", so it shouldn't be too surprising that I punch Sarah in the nose as I run forward to fake tackle her. I roll the phrase "fake tackle" over my tongue like a clouded glass marble while I silently thank God for inventing coagulant. And baby animals.
And again it's her that drives me to her house, past forgettable subdivisions that resemble the ones from Normal, the town two hours South where I used to live. There is no part of the Midwest that is not Platonic, pulling from those same cave shapes throughout, making them perfectly familiar.
We ride a train into the windy city. It's the first time I've been on a train since seven years prior, when I rode one with my parents on Easter Sunday. The day previous (Easter eve), I had been secreted away from my house by friends after arguing my mother into such a huff she had to leave the house, on the phone to my father. Classic perspective issue: my mother saw me choosing the sinful pleasures of alcohol, drugs, and rock and roll; I saw my mother stopping me from looking cool in front of my friends. If Coldplay had disbanded after Parachutes, I'd probably respect my decision more today to see them then, and even then I had to hide in the bushes outside my house until my perennially late friends arrived.
Sarah and I arrive on time in the Metro's terminus located in Chicago's Southside. Matt meets us. Dill--what Sarah has shortened his last name "Diller" to--is my oldest friend. I met him in seventh grade at Chiddix Junior High. We were on the eighth grade wrestling team together and it was he--along with a few, nerdy others--who serenaded my leaving of Illinois in the midst of sophomore year with a spirited rendition of "Normal view, normal view, normal VIEW" from MST3K: The Movie. It probably goes without saying that girls were a mystery to me then.
Now, it takes twenty-seven blocks to travel a half hour. We finally settle on a pub called Timmy O'Tooles, some Irish drinking hole that Sarah knows by reputation and whose hostess offers us a choice between smoking and non. Dude. You can smoke in this bar. Right on.
Non-smoking section: we sit, talk, eat. Eventually we finish and head to the street. As we retrace our steps back to the train, we grab two rounds of $3 margaritas that are better than their price suggests. Pictures are taken. Hugs are exchanged. I wonder when I'll see Matt again. It's been five years since the last time I came back to Illinois.
Then we drive. I like driving, but not passengering. Driving gives me a purpose. If I'm not talking or paying attention to others in the car it is because I am driving. If I ask my co-pilot to adjust the radio or temperature to my liking they will do it because I am driving. Passengers respect the driver. The driver tolerates the passengers. I like driving.
Kate is driving. I am passengering. Chicago to Lansing is about ten hours, most of which we spend listening to a Houdini audiobio. Did you know he set up his own secret service, going so far as to purchase a nearby barbershop to secure the employ of one of his operatives, whom he had sent to Barberschool, all so he could give orders under the auspices of a trim? Houdini was badass.
Along the way, at a Bob Evans, I have the first in becomes a series of uncomfortable omelettes.
In Lansing, we rest, smoke, bullshit with Deming and his wife. I fear cigarettes and myself for wanting them. We do Detroit, listening to The Flaming Groovies on the way in and our demo and Neil Young on the way home.
Then we leave. From Washington to Illinois, up to Indiana and Michigan and then back through, back West, up into Wisconsin, Minnesota, and then through North Dakota, Montana, Idaho, and back home. Taking shifts, Kate and I make it from Minneapolis to Seattle in 24 hours, some 1665 miles. We feel this number is good enough to break out in conversation should the subject of bad ideas seen through come up.
I spend my last paper money in Bismark, Montana. Coffee. We're marathoning it home, the sun spurring us on. I've got work to get to, which I do, on time and with no sleep. Monday.
The End Times.
The End Times play this Saturday at Kate's house in the Montlake district of Seattle. Keg, Seattle's premier metal man, will open proceedings with spirited cries for more rock. It is also an unbirthday party. Something for everyone, really. For directions, please contact me. Come around 7p.m., leave when we kick you out.
Listen to cuts from the new demo on our Myspace, or visit Thesearetheendtimes.com.
Ghetto Recorders, Jim's studio, is behind a non-descript door right around the block from what was, up to three weeks ago, the State Theater, but is now the Filmore, having been bought out by LiveNation, a proud if quiet member of the Clear Channel conglomerate. Actually, the door is not so much anonymous as it is forbidding, death black paint chipped and graffitied. Terribly metal.
The studio is up a flight of stairs, through what might best be described as a Green Room punctuated with a fish tank, past a conference room/dining hall and a kitchen pulled straight from the '50s, up another five steps and then into the recording room proper. A former chicken processing plant, the room itself is huge, its edges filled with a random assortment of instruments, amps, and music ephemera.
Outside the control room Kate has reached the end of the song, her voice a leaf in the chill wind of Fred's and my guitars. Poetics aside, it sounds rather spectacular, especially when run through a few vintage compressors onto 2" tape.
While listening to playback, I consider seppuku, the ancient Japanese art of saving face by killing yourself. Playback is tortuous, like losing an argument by having your own words tossed back at you, all snide and poorly said. The band is taking notes on what slide sounds best; my opinion is, in general, neither, but since, you know, we have to choose, the second attempt continues to be the better.
I need to stop smoking cigarettes. But how can I, when they taste so good? Also, between yesterday and the narrative now, I've finished most of a fifth of vodka, and nothing peaks the experience of an enjoyably woozy drunk like the filtered chemicals of a Camel 100. It is not fancy, the things I do.
Maybe I should stop drinking instead. But cold turkey is such a noonday dish, and it's Friday night in Detroit.
It was Chicago that welcomed me first. Having taken off work early (I make bookmarks, by the way. I used to be an Editor, but this pays more; I'm moving either up or down in the literary world, but I think I'm too close to judge the direction), I got dropped off at the airport three hours early, time I spent behind sunglasses, between headphones, and with mouth full of pizza. Sbarro. It was...carbohydrate rich.
Southwest, it turns out, actually offers decent snacking materials: a Nabisco sponsored box of peanuts, raisins and, the cherry, crackers and cheese. Topped off with a styrofoam eight-ounce of gram-ground coffee, it's less the usual threat than an implied taunt.
To land at Midway--an airport consistently overshadowed and overflown by O'Hare--we have to travel against the sun and through a thunderstorm. As a former Midwesterner, it's thunderstorms I miss most; after the turbulence, all I miss is flying through them. Thunderstorms are awesome in the biblical sense: bigger and more dangerous than you, ready and possibly deitically willed to smite you. If you can't respect them as beautiful natural occurences, at least fear them as spirit guides more than willing to steer your knife-wielding hand toward an ungrounded socket.
I landed in my suit (which, in case you were wondering, I was wearing when I got on the plane), insuring that my fellow travelers gave me commensurrate space and due dilligence, which is to say that no one gave a shit. Midway is in the middle of one of the poorer neighborhoods of Chicago -- Dave Chappelle: "Liquor store, liquor store, gun store, liquor store...yo, man, where we going?"
Into Lillydale was the answer, as that's where my friend Sarah lives with her roommate Amy. Two in the morning is not a high traffic time for Illinoisian commuters, so we arrive twenty-some minutes later at a familiar-looking apartment building two turns from a Jewel Osco.
The next day, Sarah gives me the tour. We pass through eight suburbs within six city blocks before we park in Naperville's posh downtown. Naperville, so Sarah tells me, is the Nation's safest city. They perform background checks before they allow anyone to move in, a gated community without the fence. One of the reasons why people move and feel safe there is the riverwalk, a five mile walkabout around the local river. The river itself is shallow, carpeted with rocks and frequented by ducks.
Nobody has ever attributed to me that charm they call "grace", so it shouldn't be too surprising that I punch Sarah in the nose as I run forward to fake tackle her. I roll the phrase "fake tackle" over my tongue like a clouded glass marble while I silently thank God for inventing coagulant. And baby animals.
And again it's her that drives me to her house, past forgettable subdivisions that resemble the ones from Normal, the town two hours South where I used to live. There is no part of the Midwest that is not Platonic, pulling from those same cave shapes throughout, making them perfectly familiar.
We ride a train into the windy city. It's the first time I've been on a train since seven years prior, when I rode one with my parents on Easter Sunday. The day previous (Easter eve), I had been secreted away from my house by friends after arguing my mother into such a huff she had to leave the house, on the phone to my father. Classic perspective issue: my mother saw me choosing the sinful pleasures of alcohol, drugs, and rock and roll; I saw my mother stopping me from looking cool in front of my friends. If Coldplay had disbanded after Parachutes, I'd probably respect my decision more today to see them then, and even then I had to hide in the bushes outside my house until my perennially late friends arrived.
Sarah and I arrive on time in the Metro's terminus located in Chicago's Southside. Matt meets us. Dill--what Sarah has shortened his last name "Diller" to--is my oldest friend. I met him in seventh grade at Chiddix Junior High. We were on the eighth grade wrestling team together and it was he--along with a few, nerdy others--who serenaded my leaving of Illinois in the midst of sophomore year with a spirited rendition of "Normal view, normal view, normal VIEW" from MST3K: The Movie. It probably goes without saying that girls were a mystery to me then.
Now, it takes twenty-seven blocks to travel a half hour. We finally settle on a pub called Timmy O'Tooles, some Irish drinking hole that Sarah knows by reputation and whose hostess offers us a choice between smoking and non. Dude. You can smoke in this bar. Right on.
Non-smoking section: we sit, talk, eat. Eventually we finish and head to the street. As we retrace our steps back to the train, we grab two rounds of $3 margaritas that are better than their price suggests. Pictures are taken. Hugs are exchanged. I wonder when I'll see Matt again. It's been five years since the last time I came back to Illinois.
Then we drive. I like driving, but not passengering. Driving gives me a purpose. If I'm not talking or paying attention to others in the car it is because I am driving. If I ask my co-pilot to adjust the radio or temperature to my liking they will do it because I am driving. Passengers respect the driver. The driver tolerates the passengers. I like driving.
Kate is driving. I am passengering. Chicago to Lansing is about ten hours, most of which we spend listening to a Houdini audiobio. Did you know he set up his own secret service, going so far as to purchase a nearby barbershop to secure the employ of one of his operatives, whom he had sent to Barberschool, all so he could give orders under the auspices of a trim? Houdini was badass.
Along the way, at a Bob Evans, I have the first in becomes a series of uncomfortable omelettes.
In Lansing, we rest, smoke, bullshit with Deming and his wife. I fear cigarettes and myself for wanting them. We do Detroit, listening to The Flaming Groovies on the way in and our demo and Neil Young on the way home.
Then we leave. From Washington to Illinois, up to Indiana and Michigan and then back through, back West, up into Wisconsin, Minnesota, and then through North Dakota, Montana, Idaho, and back home. Taking shifts, Kate and I make it from Minneapolis to Seattle in 24 hours, some 1665 miles. We feel this number is good enough to break out in conversation should the subject of bad ideas seen through come up.
I spend my last paper money in Bismark, Montana. Coffee. We're marathoning it home, the sun spurring us on. I've got work to get to, which I do, on time and with no sleep. Monday.
The End Times.
The End Times play this Saturday at Kate's house in the Montlake district of Seattle. Keg, Seattle's premier metal man, will open proceedings with spirited cries for more rock. It is also an unbirthday party. Something for everyone, really. For directions, please contact me. Come around 7p.m., leave when we kick you out.
Listen to cuts from the new demo on our Myspace, or visit Thesearetheendtimes.com.
5.15.2007
while we await the perfection of the lunch gun
When:
20 May 2007, 09:00 PM
Where::
The Mars Bar
609 Eastlake Ave. E.
Seattle, WA 98109
United States
View Map
The End Times at The Mars Bar.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)