Success!

Those of you who know me in real life know that I have a tendency to fixate and obsess. In my opinion, it’s part of my so-called “charm”. I mean, aside from the part where I fixate/obsess about love & dating and irritating stuff like that, there are other favorite things like: muscle cars, heavy metal, mullet hunting, crack cocaine, home recording, UNIX, and GLORY HOLES.

What?

Yes, glory holes.

Oh, I mean GLORY HOLES.

Now, if you don’t know what a GLORY HOLE “is”, it’s your assignment to go and figure it out. You MAY start with this, but the definition that’s provided by these construction people isn’t the one that we’re looking for.

We’re looking for the real AND bawdy description of GLORY HOLE.

Let’s explain how this fixation came to pass by way of a story. One rainy day, I was driving down Storrow Drive in Boston. Storrow Drive, if you’re unfamiliar, is like a semi-central artery for the core of the city: Copley Square, Mass Ave, Fenway, etc. Given that it cuts through the “meat” of the city, it’s also a part of the Big Dig, such that you’ll see construction vehicles around and about. One morning, as I edged along in heavy traffic, I caught the sight of the most remarkable sign out of the corner of my eye. Or at least, I thought I did.

Me: (talking to self) Did I just see a fascinating sign?
Mind: (mumbling to ME): Yes, dumbass, the sign said “GLORY HOLE 43″.
Me: (raising eyebrows): Really?
Mind: (mumbling to ME): Really. Don’t forget to bring your digital camera in the car with you tomorrow.

Obviously, I didn’t trust my mind’s judgement, so I consulted with Lukas.

Me: Dude, I saw this, uhh, sign on Storrow Drive this morning…
Lukas: Oh, you mean the Glory Hole sign?
Me: (becoming greatly amused) YEAH! You saw it, too?
Lukas: Dude, they’re EVERYWHERE. Part of the “Big Dig”.
Me: Seriously?
Lukas: Yeah, dude.
Me: Dude.
Lukas: There’s a “Glory Hole 69″ in the North End.
Me: Dude.

[Footnote: While I think that the "Big Dig", the most complex road project ever undertaken in this country, is a horrible nightmare, and a burden to people who commute into the city and taxpayers alike, I'm glad we're doing it, if only for the signs that it's brought into my life. I think that I'll collect GH pictures, like pin-up girls.]

So, I set out on one of my obsessive missions. Instead of getting angry at being stuck in traffic every morning, I would spend the time in anticipation of being able to take a picture of the “GLORY HOLE” sign from my moving car.

Photo ops and driving… a winning combination!

Without fail, Murphy’s Law prevailed. For the next weeks, I’d drive through extremely light traffic with camera in hand, and would get simply terrible and unclear pictures of the GLORY HOLE sign on my Canon Powershot S-200 (yes, I said “powerSHOT”. heh heh.). These simply wouldn’t do, and I was bummed. But each day, the Canon and I would ride into work anticipating our moment of, well, glory.

Finally, it happened… yesterday morning. I was in a hurry to get to work. First, I was running late. VERY late. Then, I realized that traffic was backed up for about 4 miles coming into the city. Such backups are never a good thing, seeing that those 4 miles will probably take one over an hour to navigate, maybe more, depending on the skill of the people who are trying to merge ahead. Usually, at the end of the merge, traffic opens up, and you’ll flit right along Storrow Drive.

Not yesterday, tho. It INCHED, literally, for a mile to get onto Storrow Drive.

(This, I soon noted, was due to the fact that there was an unconscious person by the side of the road, and this person was receiving CPR by some people who’d been so kind as to stop. As for everyone else? Rubbernecking, without providing CPR or any form of help. Then, the State Police ushered us out of there. Truly horrible sight, of someone laying motionless and having people thumping them on the chest.)

Not knowing what was actually going on ahead, I had enough time to take my camera out of its bag, open my car window, stop the car, take a picture of the sign, close my window, admire the picture, then put my camera back into the bag, before moving again.

Success! The sequel to this fixation is under development. Check back soon!

R0kken

So, after torching much of the music that I’d been working on for the past months/years/whatever, I took a few days off (from it), and re-focused.

First, I figured out what I wanted to do musically. I decided to stick with metal and progressive. I mean, I’m always joking around, so why make music that sounds like I’m kidding when I didn’t mean to?

Second, I thought about themes. Since the music was going to be heavy, I didn’t want to go overboard with “imagery”. That is, I have a pretty decent life, so writing songs about why it sucks and why I’m anti-establishment and why I hate my parents — just wouldn’t make sense. Besides, I don’t believe or feel any of those things. On the other hand, unlike the old days, I decided not to write from the stream of consciousness, because that’s also just silly. Why do you want to hear songs about snack machines and off-the-cuff remarks like “I lick the gold, boogie is good… the wolf will survive outdoors… please do not feed”?

Third, following the heavy music, I wanted it to be “up” and have a little “punch” at the same time, and maybe some melody.

Fourth, I wanted to name the “effort”. Many good names were submitted, and a good number of them were totally hilarious. Thank you!

I opted to call the “effort” … “Jarvik-11″. I’ll let you guess what it means.

Maybe next week, I’ll release the first song. I finally got something along the lines of what I’d wanted to do: punchy sound, boomy drums, thick guitars. But oh, as always, the singing… it’s abominable!

(For those keeping score at home, the first song is right at 3 minutes, which makes it a good kick-off track, I think. Normally, my songs average 5-6 minutes.)

This Email is about Nothing. Nothing? Nothing.

Sometimes, I wonder if I’m really awake and at work, or in bed asleep.

I had a dream recently, about playing the drums … with two baguettes. For whatever reason, in the dream, I was able to get through all of “Unsung” by Helmet and a third of “Kashmir” by Led Zeppelin before one of the baguettes snapped and sent crums flying everywhere. Now, this dream also featured Jarts, the Buffalo Bills, and partial nudity (no, not all at the same time), so I was pretty sure that it was just that, a dream.

But when I read things like the following, from my company’s managers, sent hot and fresh to my (e)mailbox, I wonder when I’ll start thinking about drumming, bakery, and sports again. Here:

“… each of you continue to closely review all system changes and ensure that we have a solid mean time to repair (MTTR) metrics and improve our recovery time. I am asking that each of you review daily progress on our go-for green plans, improving our MTTR and ensuring successful change.”

Now, not to be contrary, but what the fuck does that mean?

Metrics?

Go-green?

MTTR?

TPS reports?

Global positioning?

The Kama Sutra. Yes. She’s writing about the Kama Sutra! Why didn’t I see that before?!

Scrap Metal

I managed to record four songs for my beloved “Mother’s Ilk” EP. And then I realized that none of these songs were really all that good, so I stopped, and decided not to “release” these so-called songs at this time. I’m still going to work at putting something out, but I really need to re-focus before I start over.

I guess that my problem is my conflict between my comfort zone (metal) and sounding contrived or silly by getting in over my head musically (everything else). Last thing I want is to share a collection of work with you that attracts all of your neighborhood cats!

There are a few problems, which include:
1. Muddy mix. This is really the effect of two things: overburdening the low end of the (frequency) scale, and playing badly with a bad and slightly muddy tone to boot. Suck.
2. Singing. I’m not a singer. I really shouldn’t pretend to be one. Maybe I should request that someone sings these songs. I’m not sure. If I had one good lead instrument, maybe singing would matter less. But it seems like singing is required when instruments follow simple patterns for a song where singing was intended.
3. Boring-sounding playing. I’ve forgotten that — no matter how much I enjoy the recording and mixing part of the process — I really dislike playing things over and over to get them “right”. What usually happens is what’s happened this time: I eventually get a correct take, which is also one that I discard because the playing sounds bored and uninterested.
4. The subject matter. I hate to admit it, that while metal sucks, I’m also still a fan. And for such sucky-sounding stuff as metal, it requires a degree of skill to make a recording where kick drum, bass and guitar don’t fight each other to death to grab clarity in the mix. So, maybe I should try something else, which is what I’m going to try to do.
5. Being Morrissey. I hate to brood like Morrissey, especially over metal. I mean, it’s like I’m my own Rod Stewart. Wait, didn’t Morrissey criticize Rod once in an interview? Wait, no, that was Michael Stipe. He’s boring, too, except that he’s got a clear mix for his mumbling.

Is it just me, or is it easy to envy Peter Gabriel, the fellow who writes burdensome and self-absorbed songs that also rock? I’d settle not to be Mott the Hoople.

Tawny TEET

I’ve grown tired of VH-1’s “Behind the Music” series. If I wanted gross monotony, I’d stick to the confines of my own fucking life. Thankfully, with television, of course, you’ve got drop-in replacements, so now it’s the “E!: True Hollywood Stories” series. I’ll leave “Behind the Music” to its intended purpose: for record companies to purge their stock of Rick James’ albums and similar.

The finest “True Hollywood Story” that I’ve seen as of late was the one about Tawny Kitaen (who might also be known as the fifth or sixth member of “Whitesnake” if you listen to her jibbah-jabbah about her “involvement” with the band). Tawny, if you’re unaware, has been on something of a downturn since, say, 1991.

And it’s all my fault.

Well, okay, that’s not strictly true. It’s only partly my fault; the rest of the fault falls on Working Class America, who occassionally will ignore someone — en masse — when they perceive that said celebrity doesn’t hold a real job. The cumulative effect? Nobody will pay attention to you anymore. Same goes for you, I think, Adrian Zmed.

Tawny Kitaen, excuse me if you don’t know her, became “famous” due to her long-standing relationship with David Coverdale of the band “Whitesnake”. “Whitesnake”, if you’re unfamiliar, is/was a rock outfit where David Coverdale showcased his best attempts at Being Robert Plant.

“Whitesnake” was like just about every other commercial/metal band of the 1980’s: loud guitars, overproducted recordings, hair spray, “partying”, and partial nudity. “Whitesnake’s” gimmicks, as decided by he of the Coverdale genetic profile, would involve all of the above, plus exclusive footage of Tawny Kitaen hanging out the window of his 1986 Jaguar XJ6.

What?

YES! There it would be, David Coverdale sitting awkardly in the driver seat of the Jaguar, lip synching along with his own song lyrics, Being Robert Plant, and Tawny Kitaen hanging out the passenger window, greeting passers-by like some kind of silicone-stuffed Julie from “The Love Boat”.

In 1987, I was in high school, an all-male, Catholic, private school. Confirming my heterosexuality, I bought into this dog and pony show, salivating profusely while admiring this seductress as she did nothing more than an impersonation of my own labrador retriever when he’s on a car ride.

And then it happened. We were really technology-strapped in 1987. No cable modems. No Linux. No Tivo. On one weekend afternoon, a friend and I were viewing a “Whitesnake” video on MTV (yeah, they used to show videos and stuff), and what was to happen, but boob exposure.

What?!

No joke. My friend and I nearly fell over when we say Tawny’s boob as she hanged out of the window of the Jaguar.

“Uhh?”, said I.
“Ummm”, said my friend.
“Did you just see a ‘boob’?”, said I.
“I think so. If only there was a way to rewind live tv”, said my friend.
“I don’t think that such a thing would ever be possible”, said I.
“Well, we’ll have to tape it the next time it’s on”, said my friend.

And so it was done. For the following days, we sat glued to MTV, waiting for the video to re-appear. And it did, it was recorded, and the boob outing was confirmed: several times.

Is there a point to this all? No, not really. But if you see the video these days, the boob has been fuzzed out, which is probably historically correct, since I’m sure that it’s time for Tawny to get them re-stuffed anyways.

I’m going to hang out the window of my car now. Here I go: again.

Only in America, Part Whatever

Somehow, I think that professional football (a la the NFL) has become America’s game. Maybe it’s America’s Shining Idealism, actually, if you consider its positives, like: lack of work stoppages, equality of opportunity/spending and the whole any given Sunday mantra. It’s truly remarkable how any team in any market can succeed if it’s being run by people who have some semblance of a clue.

Now that the season’s on, I watch all day Sunday, and iron my clothes while I watch the games on Monday night.

There’s something about football “culture”, tho, in particular when you think about professional franchises. Aside from the gawdy showmanship, you’ve got things like mascots and so-called rivalries.

Last night, for instance, I was watching an action-packed game between the Miami Dolphins and the Denver Broncos. But aside from the game was the sheer amusement that struck me — care of the Denver Broncos’ mascot. This mascot looks something like a bronco, only a friendlier and smiling bronco, who’s without the set of evil Firestone tires.

For whatever reason, mascots tend to behave like they’re somehow tightly integrated with the action on the field. I nearly lost control of my bodily functions when the Broncos’ mascot smashed a plush dolphin doll headfirst into the goal post after the Broncos’ scored a field goal.

After I stopped laughing, it got me to thinking: what if after points were scored, they pitted a real bronco against a real dolphin? How would that play itself out? What about a real Buffalo against the ghost of Paul Brown? Or, I’d pay extra admission to see all of the feline-related mascots square off. Following real-life mascot wars, things get abstract. Sure, you’ve got a number of animal-related teams, and you’ve got a few state-lore related teams. But then you’ve got teams like the Chargers. In the end, I figure, you end up with scissors-paper-rock.

“How?”, you ask.

Well, can you imagine what would happen if you fired a cannon (the Chargers) at a dolphin? It would definitely be rock on scissors. What if you fired a cannon at the ghost of Paul Brown? Rock on rock.

Arggh, the only way to win the (real-life mascot) game is not to play.

How about a nice game of chess?

Distraction and Abstraction

I’ve nicknamed this upper-middle manager (here, at work) “the tapestry”. Why? That’s not important.

What “is” important is that he’s possibly the most random fellow that I’ve ever met. That is, I’m never quite sure if he’s got a fantastic and random sense of humor, or if he’s just a total knucklehead. Judging from what I’ve seen, I’ll settle for the latter. Consider today:

He: Hi.
Me: Hi.
He: (gesturing at cubicle of the person who sits next to me) A’s cubicle is starting to look like A’s beard.
Me: (looking up, with wide eyes.)
He: No, really, his cube bears a striking resemblence to his facial hair.
Me: (starting to giggle like a little schoolgirl) What?!
He: Think about it!
Me: (thinking about how a desk can look like a beard, or any piece of body hair, then laughing again like a schoolgirl despite the fact that I was still not understanding the point of reference.)
He: See what I mean?
Me: Sure, ha, yes.

Upon further discussion between other co-workers and myself, it was explained that both A’s beard and his desk are dissheveled, hence the point of reference.

Jesus Lord God, man. Couldn’t he just have said that A’s desk was a mess and that A’s beard needed a coif?

On the other hand, I’m appalled that I see a bit of my own randomness in “the tapestry”, maybe for even naming him so. Fuck.

Name the Band.

I’ve been working on recording on “new” music for the last year or so. Despite the fact that I listen to different genres of music just about everyday, I’m stuck in the metal rut, such that I frequently find myself recording metal songs when I didn’t mean to. I can’t really tell you why this is. I’m not really mad about anything right now, but maybe it’s that metal allows me to be maudlin when I really need it. Better, I prefer to write songs with as much heavyness and groove — and using as little variety notes — as possible.

For this effort, I’ve been recording all of the instruments myself, although I’m still unsure if I want to include my so-called singing with the songs.

What I hope to do is release the 4-5 song EP titled “Mother’s Ilk” in the next week or so. I’ll put some mp3’s — or links to mp3’s — up here when the time comes.

In the meantime, I’m looking for a band name, and would get a huge rise if you’d suggest one. Please don’t cheat and look here if you send one, as I’ll be able to ferret you out. I’ve been considering these possible names, keeping in mind that they all suck equally:
1. Mother’s Ilk
2. The Pals in Arson Project
3. Jesus Built my Hotmail
4. Impale Rider
5. Caucasian Sabbath
6. Boyz2Menbla
7. Spiderman, David Spiderman
8. Rest Stop Romeo
9. Been Caught Speeding, Once
10. Yolanda Vega and the Eleven O’Clock Balls

Chips: Day 3

This is the third day that chips are under my desk. No, silly, Ponch isn’t offering me “favors” in between titty twists with UNIX and middle management.

Some of the people here at work are known to brandish snacks. These people, as you might guess, are some of my favorite co-workers. This past Monday, they went double barrel[ed], and opened up big bags of both barbeque chips and cheese-flavored “SmartFood” popcorn.

The only problem with snack day is that it’s messy. When 20-30 people eat from the same feedbags, you’ll find crumbs everywhere. This includes, for whatever reason, the area under my desk.

We have cleaning people here (who should be appearing at any moment now). Too Much Perfume Chick should be here shortly, and the Mad Vaccumer should appear around 6pm. The Mad Vaccumer, as his name suggests, used to be the best durned vacuumer in the whole world. Or so I thought. I mean, he’d vacuum in and around anything that was in his path. I believed that nothing dirty would go unvaccumed: that was, until I realized that he just likes walking around with the noisy vacuum, not bothering to look at what he was picking up. Yesterday, when MV vaccumed around me at 6:04pm, he neglected to get the chips and popcorn kernels that are sitting in plain view.

Not to fault him or anything. Seriously. I’d just like to see how many days it takes before he notices. Will update chip log as appropriate. That is all.

Cake, More-Tar and Letter B.

I was sent home with leftover birthday cake on 9/23/2002. It was simply delicious, what, with being a chocolate cake with dutch chocolate frosting and all. The only problem was that this cake was gigantic, far too much for one person. So, for the better part of a week, I had at it. My daily routine went something like this (although Monday was an exception since I ate cake 5 times):

1. Wake up
2. Eat cake while getting coffee ready
3. Take dog out
4. Drink coffee and eat cake
5. Go to work
6. Think about cake
7. Return home
8. Take dog out
9. Eat cake
10. Have dinner
11. Eat cake

(Yeah, on Monday, I had more cake before heading to bed, too.)

- x -

I keep running into the tar-talking gal. I asked for her phone number, but was denied (she gave the phone number, but it was wrong, so I didn’t ask if she’d given me the wrong number and nor did she accuse me of not calling). A few days afterwards, Mr. Footprints from the sandwich shop asked for her number, and it was granted. I didn’t get any indication of whether or not the number she gave him was correct.

The whole thing suggests that I should find myself some kind of neat out-of-wallet trick. Pulling out my wallet and showing would-be dates a condom isn’t all that creative. The Footprints grift is so we-sent-Moses-down-the-river-in-a-wicker-basket-and-he-grew-up-to-be-Heston.

So, what does that leave me with? Do you want to see my Platinum Card? I’m a member of my local library. Umm, you want me to go and stand over there? OK.

- x -

I wrote a very revealing letter to someone a few days ago, which I’ve been on pins and needles about ever since. Pounding heart. Pounding heart.