...was a pretty decent movie; "vagina dentata" and all that. Here's 5 minutes on it...getcha learn on, yo.
Anyway, I went to the dentist today for the first of my next five, yes five, drillings. Excluding last week for my initial check-up (in which they couldn't even start the cleaning process for fear of waking my screaming nerve endings), I haven't been to a dentist since 1996 when I had an infected molar pulled. Before that? Shit...I couldn't tell you. In addition to the cavity farm I'm currently cultivating, I've got to have an abcessed tooth, which is broken off at the gum line, surgically removed in a couple of weeks. I think the technical term for the condition of my teeth is "fucked up". Luckily, I have absolutely no fear of the dentist; it's basically just a pain in the ass to have to deal with it. I was also encouraged to get rid of my tongue piercing, which has done all sorts of minor damage to my teeth. That was a no-brainer. That little fucker is sitting on the stove in a pot of boiling water as I type, to be relegated to the box of trinkets I keep for occasions such as this. I had my tongue pierced for the second time about 12 years ago (the first was in 1992, I think...got it while I was on a day pass at my first rehab), and have never taken it out, so I do feel some kind of misguided attachment to it. I mean, hell, we've been through a lot together, right? And at one recent point in time, having a barbell through the middle of your tongue was actually somewhat subversive, especially here in Minnesota. But all I have to do is think about every 16 year-old suburban mallcore rat that has one now, and I breathe easier knowing I haven't actually grown up too much and given in to "the man". I guess I don't have to really start worrying until facial tattoos come into vogue.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Racist Sheep
Things I Ate At The Minnesota State Fair:
-Elephant Ear
-Sno-Cone
-Macaroni and cheese on a stick
-Tater tots on a stick
-Deep fried Twinkie
-1/2 a Pronto Pup
-Bacon on a stick
-Chocolate covered bacon (affectionately termed "Pig Lickers")
-About 15 chocolate chip cookies
-1/2 a quart of 2% milk
-1/2 a steak sandwich
-Deep fried Oreos
-Alligator sausage on a stick
-4 different kinds of rootbeer and 1 fine sarsaparilla (the vendor of the "German" root beer didn't find it amusing when I told him that I was expecting him to just give me one ice cube and then glare at me)
-1 Kaliber non-alcoholic beer
Not bad for 8 hours of work. Especially after the midday cookies put me out of commission for a solid two hours.
In the 12 years I've lived in Minneapolis, this is the first year I've attended the state fair. Thousands of articles from thousands of media outlets have spoken of state fair experiences, so I really don't need to comb through it too extensively. Tickets for the rides and games disappear like socks in a dryer. The freakshow was depressingly bad; "Geek Love" and my imagination ruined it for me. And this really threw me off for a second:
I thought I had walked into a giant clan rally for sheep. The reality isn't nearly as funny. The hoods and robes just keep their wool clean.
Well, I'm off to Winterland Studios to continue work on the Wrecking Day CD that I'm producing. Just in time to hit traffic...
-Elephant Ear
-Sno-Cone
-Macaroni and cheese on a stick
-Tater tots on a stick
-Deep fried Twinkie
-1/2 a Pronto Pup
-Bacon on a stick
-Chocolate covered bacon (affectionately termed "Pig Lickers")
-About 15 chocolate chip cookies
-1/2 a quart of 2% milk
-1/2 a steak sandwich
-Deep fried Oreos
-Alligator sausage on a stick
-4 different kinds of rootbeer and 1 fine sarsaparilla (the vendor of the "German" root beer didn't find it amusing when I told him that I was expecting him to just give me one ice cube and then glare at me)
-1 Kaliber non-alcoholic beer
Not bad for 8 hours of work. Especially after the midday cookies put me out of commission for a solid two hours.
In the 12 years I've lived in Minneapolis, this is the first year I've attended the state fair. Thousands of articles from thousands of media outlets have spoken of state fair experiences, so I really don't need to comb through it too extensively. Tickets for the rides and games disappear like socks in a dryer. The freakshow was depressingly bad; "Geek Love" and my imagination ruined it for me. And this really threw me off for a second:
I thought I had walked into a giant clan rally for sheep. The reality isn't nearly as funny. The hoods and robes just keep their wool clean.
Well, I'm off to Winterland Studios to continue work on the Wrecking Day CD that I'm producing. Just in time to hit traffic...
Sunday, August 24, 2008
The Black Death Hits Shakopee
It showed 57 degrees last night at around 2am where I live. It's August.
Fuck.
A subtle reminder that the 3 weeks of normal weather that this state gets is basically over, and that Jack Frost is just around the next corner, breathing heavily and clutching his engorged prick; impatiently waiting to sodomize us in the cold, dark alley that is Minnesota.
He never even takes us to dinner and a movie first.
But it's pretty nice today. The A/C is off and the windows are open. And not once yesterday, did I mop my forehead and wonder what the fuck I was doing outside in Shakopee all day long. The Renaissance Festival was actually a good time, and I'm glad I was encouraged to go. It wasn't as serious and immersive as I remember it being in 1983. Maybe because it's harder to pretend these days. Technology has come a long way in 25 years, and it's got to be almost impossible to stay in character when your cell phone is buzzing with a text in your pocket and you're wondering if you can get wireless internet to check movie times when your shift is over. Half the people I talked to seemed to be from California, and by throwing enough laidback-isms at them ("dude", "awesome", "fuckin'", etc...), which is very natural for me, they softened and broke character. Talking to our rickshaw drivers about Throbbing Gristle and SPK kinda cemented it. It's too much, in 2008, to be able to suspend disbelief as much compared to a quarter-century ago. Seeing a dude in full leather armor with a 6 foot battle axe strapped to his back futzing with his iPhone kind of throws the whole thing askew.
But the turkey leg was good, the juggling/knife-throwing comedy act was better, and finding bottles of Irn-Bru (pronounced "Iron Brew") in the Scottish Highland Games area was the best. Dressed like Chinese immigrants, the two fellas pulling/pushing our rickshaw maneuvered us through a maze like corridor, and took us into the strangely quiet Scottish area, which was made up of the games field surrounded by plain ol' booths with white tents. A lot of dry, Scottish history stuff, the obligatory kilt booth, what I believed to be a Scottish Ministry of Tourism booth (?), and what I'll call the Happy Foreign Sugar Tent. Besides the wonderful orange colored, bubblegum flavored soda, they had Lilt (in my top 5 of favorite UK sodas), Ribena, Mars Bars (not that weird American almond shit), and some great Cadbury products. Best. Booth. Ever. (And along with my "Simpsons" riff, I should mention that one of the fire-eater's acts was called "Tastes Like Burning". What little Ralphie has to do with the Black Plague, I'm not entirely sure).
The moral is: sometimes you gotta try things a few times just to make sure you don't like them. Or do like them. I'm not sure which way it goes. I guess it depends on how you feel about knights with cell phones.
Fuck.
A subtle reminder that the 3 weeks of normal weather that this state gets is basically over, and that Jack Frost is just around the next corner, breathing heavily and clutching his engorged prick; impatiently waiting to sodomize us in the cold, dark alley that is Minnesota.
He never even takes us to dinner and a movie first.
But it's pretty nice today. The A/C is off and the windows are open. And not once yesterday, did I mop my forehead and wonder what the fuck I was doing outside in Shakopee all day long. The Renaissance Festival was actually a good time, and I'm glad I was encouraged to go. It wasn't as serious and immersive as I remember it being in 1983. Maybe because it's harder to pretend these days. Technology has come a long way in 25 years, and it's got to be almost impossible to stay in character when your cell phone is buzzing with a text in your pocket and you're wondering if you can get wireless internet to check movie times when your shift is over. Half the people I talked to seemed to be from California, and by throwing enough laidback-isms at them ("dude", "awesome", "fuckin'", etc...), which is very natural for me, they softened and broke character. Talking to our rickshaw drivers about Throbbing Gristle and SPK kinda cemented it. It's too much, in 2008, to be able to suspend disbelief as much compared to a quarter-century ago. Seeing a dude in full leather armor with a 6 foot battle axe strapped to his back futzing with his iPhone kind of throws the whole thing askew.
But the turkey leg was good, the juggling/knife-throwing comedy act was better, and finding bottles of Irn-Bru (pronounced "Iron Brew") in the Scottish Highland Games area was the best. Dressed like Chinese immigrants, the two fellas pulling/pushing our rickshaw maneuvered us through a maze like corridor, and took us into the strangely quiet Scottish area, which was made up of the games field surrounded by plain ol' booths with white tents. A lot of dry, Scottish history stuff, the obligatory kilt booth, what I believed to be a Scottish Ministry of Tourism booth (?), and what I'll call the Happy Foreign Sugar Tent. Besides the wonderful orange colored, bubblegum flavored soda, they had Lilt (in my top 5 of favorite UK sodas), Ribena, Mars Bars (not that weird American almond shit), and some great Cadbury products. Best. Booth. Ever. (And along with my "Simpsons" riff, I should mention that one of the fire-eater's acts was called "Tastes Like Burning". What little Ralphie has to do with the Black Plague, I'm not entirely sure).
The moral is: sometimes you gotta try things a few times just to make sure you don't like them. Or do like them. I'm not sure which way it goes. I guess it depends on how you feel about knights with cell phones.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
This Is My Rifle...
...these are my guns. My girl got a new camera recently, somebody asked for a picture of my Taurus, and Boom (pun intended) ! Instant blog.
This is my Taurus PT1911 .45 ACP. It's accurate, very smooth for a .45, and just plain looks fucking cool. A "Saturday night out on the town" gun, if you will.
This is my Glock 23, my daily carry gun. It's a .40 caliber compact. An absolute workhorse; ultra reliable. Austrian engineering at it's finest. Nothing too special here. If you've seen one Glock, you've seen 'em all.
And, I'm going to the Renaissance Festival tomorrow and no, I don't plan on buying any pewter wizard figurines or jester hats. Due to being dragged to one in Calabasas, California against my will when I was 11 or 12 by my mom, and the fact that I've known one too many persons that seem a little too into it (and I mean, weirdly into it...they lived solely to tour and/or attend it every year, and their fanaticism and cliquish Ren-Fair-Sir-Milady speak, especially in a coffee shop at 3am, just made me feel uncomfortable and itchy), I have obvious reservations. But I'm sure I'll have a good time. I can fuck up a turkey leg, that much is certain. And I'm looking forward to some silent judging, and mental note-taking regarding any Solo cups, "No Smoking" signs, or "miladys" taking Camel Light breaks. Do they have Leeching Booths? Now that I'd dig.
If I go to sleep right now, I'll get 6.5 hours.
Goodnight.
This is my Taurus PT1911 .45 ACP. It's accurate, very smooth for a .45, and just plain looks fucking cool. A "Saturday night out on the town" gun, if you will.
This is my Glock 23, my daily carry gun. It's a .40 caliber compact. An absolute workhorse; ultra reliable. Austrian engineering at it's finest. Nothing too special here. If you've seen one Glock, you've seen 'em all.
And, I'm going to the Renaissance Festival tomorrow and no, I don't plan on buying any pewter wizard figurines or jester hats. Due to being dragged to one in Calabasas, California against my will when I was 11 or 12 by my mom, and the fact that I've known one too many persons that seem a little too into it (and I mean, weirdly into it...they lived solely to tour and/or attend it every year, and their fanaticism and cliquish Ren-Fair-Sir-Milady speak, especially in a coffee shop at 3am, just made me feel uncomfortable and itchy), I have obvious reservations. But I'm sure I'll have a good time. I can fuck up a turkey leg, that much is certain. And I'm looking forward to some silent judging, and mental note-taking regarding any Solo cups, "No Smoking" signs, or "miladys" taking Camel Light breaks. Do they have Leeching Booths? Now that I'd dig.
If I go to sleep right now, I'll get 6.5 hours.
Goodnight.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
READ THIS BEFORE YOU COMMENT
Dig it.
Like I said before, I don't want this blog to be, in any way, just an extension of my band's Myspace page or official website. This is a fully functioning separate entity. Here I can talk about anything and not care if you like it, hate it, or think I'm an idiot for mentioning it. There will obviously be band related things hammered on, because, well, my baby is a large part of who I am. But if I choose to do 750 words on killing the millipedes in my basement for 8 posts in a row, I don't want to have to care if you think I'm not keeping you "updated" enough about the rock.
I have almost 30 comments waiting to be OK'd right now, and I'm not sure if I'm going to give them the go ahead. I'm not even sure if I want people to be able to comment. This is a content driven exercise. Whether you can see your comment and feel cool about it does not enter into my vision. That's cool, I guess...but this is not the vehicle for that. That's what those travesties called Myspace and Facebook are for. Almost every comment I've got on hold mentions the name of my band, the name of our albums, my god-given name, or some reference to knowing me. But this...this is not a conversation, or an instant message; a forum or an irritating chatty social network for people to keep tabs on me or my band. This is me blathering on. Exit. Not entrance. Give. Not take.
If you've noticed, I have kept proper names out of this blog, as far as my personal and professional life, and I intend to keep it that way. The words "blah blah blah" are not uttered anywhere on this blog, as neither are my bandmate's names, or even my real name.
Do you follow? Or do I just sound like a dick? If you follow, then any comments from here on out should be having a different tone to them. If I just sound like a dick? Then go here.
Like I said before, I don't want this blog to be, in any way, just an extension of my band's Myspace page or official website. This is a fully functioning separate entity. Here I can talk about anything and not care if you like it, hate it, or think I'm an idiot for mentioning it. There will obviously be band related things hammered on, because, well, my baby is a large part of who I am. But if I choose to do 750 words on killing the millipedes in my basement for 8 posts in a row, I don't want to have to care if you think I'm not keeping you "updated" enough about the rock.
I have almost 30 comments waiting to be OK'd right now, and I'm not sure if I'm going to give them the go ahead. I'm not even sure if I want people to be able to comment. This is a content driven exercise. Whether you can see your comment and feel cool about it does not enter into my vision. That's cool, I guess...but this is not the vehicle for that. That's what those travesties called Myspace and Facebook are for. Almost every comment I've got on hold mentions the name of my band, the name of our albums, my god-given name, or some reference to knowing me. But this...this is not a conversation, or an instant message; a forum or an irritating chatty social network for people to keep tabs on me or my band. This is me blathering on. Exit. Not entrance. Give. Not take.
If you've noticed, I have kept proper names out of this blog, as far as my personal and professional life, and I intend to keep it that way. The words "blah blah blah" are not uttered anywhere on this blog, as neither are my bandmate's names, or even my real name.
Do you follow? Or do I just sound like a dick? If you follow, then any comments from here on out should be having a different tone to them. If I just sound like a dick? Then go here.
Lists and the Good Ol' Days
Albums I've Been Listening To:
-ZZ Top - Tres Amigos ('73) and Mescalero (2003)
-Cheap Trick - Cheap Trick ('77), In Color ('77), Heaven Tonight ('78), and Dream Police ('79)
-The Cars - The Cars ('78) and Candy O ('79)
-Otis Redding - His entire discography
-Voice of the Beehive - Let it Bee ('88)
-N.E.R.D. - Seeing Sounds (2008)
Shit I've Downloaded But Haven't Gotten Around To Yet:
-My Bloody Valentine - Loveless ('91)
-Paul Leary (Butthole Surfers guitarist) - The History of Dogs ('91)
-Radiohead - In Rainbows (2008)
Books I've Recently Read:
-I'm a Lebowski, You're a Lebowski - Green, Peskoe, Russell, and Shuffitt (HIGHLY recommended for the serious Achiever. Stop reading this and go to the bookstore, now.)
-Choke - Chuck Palahniuk
-Whores: An Oral Biography of Perry Farrell and Jane's Addiction - Brendan Mullen
-Slash - Slash & Anthony Bozza
Books I'm In The Middle Of:
-Under the Black Flag - David Cordingly (An as-factual-as-you-can-get account of pirate life...pretty fucking dry reading, though)
-Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs - Chuck Klosterman
-Mein Kampf - The Asshole with the Little Mustache (Now THIS is really fucking dry)
Books On Deck:
Does Anything Eat Wasps? - New Scientist
Killing Yourself to Live - Chuck Klosterman
Waiter Rant - by "The Waiter"
The Book of the Damned - The Collected Works of Charles Fort
The Rum Diary (again) - Hunter S. Thompson
A few things I noticed after typing this: I really like making lists, I read a lot of contemporary fluff and spend too much time on the "terlet", I rarely listen to anything remotely "metal", and the ratio of old albums to new albums is shockingly off balance.
This last one begs the question, and I want you to really think about this: When was the last time you put in a brand new heavy metal record, or, shit, any newer record for that matter, and went, "HOLY JESUS! I have NEVER heard anything quite like this before! This is fucking life changing! This will become an aural time stamp for this period of my life! Where have I been, and why was I not told about this?!?!?"
To which I answer, "You probably haven't for a long, long time...if ever."
And if you haven't? Well, I actually envy you. Nothing sucks more than realizing you haven't arguably felt like that since you heard "The Land of Rape and Honey" in 1988. "Arguably" being a key qualifier. I mean, sure it's happened with lesser impact before. Faith No More's "Angel Dust" in 1992. My introduction to The Jesus Lizard in 1995. Techno Animal's "Brotherhood of the Bomb" in the late 90's . And more recently, Jesu's "Conqueror", Shellac in general (yeah, I know...late to the game), and TV on the Radio's "Staring at the Sun" EP.
But I miss those life changing, musical "HOLY JESUS!" moments. When I bought The Red Hot Chili Pepper's "Uplift Mofo Party Plan" and Jane's Addiction's "Nothing's Shocking" cassettes on the same day in 1988, and sat in my El Camino listening with my fucking jaw on the floorboard. When I heard Public Enemy's "It Takes a Nation of Millions..." for the first time, and hated it, but was craving it a week later. Hearing Skinny Puppy's "Rabies" and Revolting Cock's "You Goddamn Son of a Bitch" way back when...NIN's "Pretty Hate Machine" the week it came out. I suppose that the music I was exposed to between the years 1987-1992 left quite an impression on me, which would make sense, since I've heard that a person generally sticks to the music they listened to between the ages of 18 and 25. And if that is indeed the case, I feel sorry for anybody born after 1990. What kind of fucking legacy have you been left?!? The shambling, jangling crap on the cover of Spin? 50 Cent? Puff Daddy? The 367 modern rock radio bands that all SOUND LIKE THE SAME BAND? Blink 182? Panic at the Disco? The Black Kids? Fucking...Tokio Hotel?!?
Jesus. I'm that guy.
-ZZ Top - Tres Amigos ('73) and Mescalero (2003)
-Cheap Trick - Cheap Trick ('77), In Color ('77), Heaven Tonight ('78), and Dream Police ('79)
-The Cars - The Cars ('78) and Candy O ('79)
-Otis Redding - His entire discography
-Voice of the Beehive - Let it Bee ('88)
-N.E.R.D. - Seeing Sounds (2008)
Shit I've Downloaded But Haven't Gotten Around To Yet:
-My Bloody Valentine - Loveless ('91)
-Paul Leary (Butthole Surfers guitarist) - The History of Dogs ('91)
-Radiohead - In Rainbows (2008)
Books I've Recently Read:
-I'm a Lebowski, You're a Lebowski - Green, Peskoe, Russell, and Shuffitt (HIGHLY recommended for the serious Achiever. Stop reading this and go to the bookstore, now.)
-Choke - Chuck Palahniuk
-Whores: An Oral Biography of Perry Farrell and Jane's Addiction - Brendan Mullen
-Slash - Slash & Anthony Bozza
Books I'm In The Middle Of:
-Under the Black Flag - David Cordingly (An as-factual-as-you-can-get account of pirate life...pretty fucking dry reading, though)
-Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs - Chuck Klosterman
-Mein Kampf - The Asshole with the Little Mustache (Now THIS is really fucking dry)
Books On Deck:
Does Anything Eat Wasps? - New Scientist
Killing Yourself to Live - Chuck Klosterman
Waiter Rant - by "The Waiter"
The Book of the Damned - The Collected Works of Charles Fort
The Rum Diary (again) - Hunter S. Thompson
A few things I noticed after typing this: I really like making lists, I read a lot of contemporary fluff and spend too much time on the "terlet", I rarely listen to anything remotely "metal", and the ratio of old albums to new albums is shockingly off balance.
This last one begs the question, and I want you to really think about this: When was the last time you put in a brand new heavy metal record, or, shit, any newer record for that matter, and went, "HOLY JESUS! I have NEVER heard anything quite like this before! This is fucking life changing! This will become an aural time stamp for this period of my life! Where have I been, and why was I not told about this?!?!?"
To which I answer, "You probably haven't for a long, long time...if ever."
And if you haven't? Well, I actually envy you. Nothing sucks more than realizing you haven't arguably felt like that since you heard "The Land of Rape and Honey" in 1988. "Arguably" being a key qualifier. I mean, sure it's happened with lesser impact before. Faith No More's "Angel Dust" in 1992. My introduction to The Jesus Lizard in 1995. Techno Animal's "Brotherhood of the Bomb" in the late 90's . And more recently, Jesu's "Conqueror", Shellac in general (yeah, I know...late to the game), and TV on the Radio's "Staring at the Sun" EP.
But I miss those life changing, musical "HOLY JESUS!" moments. When I bought The Red Hot Chili Pepper's "Uplift Mofo Party Plan" and Jane's Addiction's "Nothing's Shocking" cassettes on the same day in 1988, and sat in my El Camino listening with my fucking jaw on the floorboard. When I heard Public Enemy's "It Takes a Nation of Millions..." for the first time, and hated it, but was craving it a week later. Hearing Skinny Puppy's "Rabies" and Revolting Cock's "You Goddamn Son of a Bitch" way back when...NIN's "Pretty Hate Machine" the week it came out. I suppose that the music I was exposed to between the years 1987-1992 left quite an impression on me, which would make sense, since I've heard that a person generally sticks to the music they listened to between the ages of 18 and 25. And if that is indeed the case, I feel sorry for anybody born after 1990. What kind of fucking legacy have you been left?!? The shambling, jangling crap on the cover of Spin? 50 Cent? Puff Daddy? The 367 modern rock radio bands that all SOUND LIKE THE SAME BAND? Blink 182? Panic at the Disco? The Black Kids? Fucking...Tokio Hotel?!?
Jesus. I'm that guy.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
The Curious Narcissist
You ever Google your own name? Maybe you have. But did you Google your band's name late last night and spend 90 minutes slogging through some of the worst "journalism" you've ever had the displeasure to subject yourself to? Of course not. You, sir, are not a fucking idiot. Me? Idiots Rule.
I read my own press. I've got the cojones to admit it. I'm not one of those elitist doughboys that will look you in the eye, light a cigarette, bend you over, and blow smoke up your ass about how I "never read about myself". I do, and I do it until my eyes bleed...or until I think about some Alisha Klass video that I need to steal from the ethers...whichever comes first. It's refreshing, actually. An affirmation, reminding me how much better off I am upstairs than the majority of the population that are stealing my precious oxygen, especially anyone that religiously and obsessively comments on rock/metal forums and/or message boards.
Probably every six months I'll pull the aforementioned idiot move, and I swear to whatever god you pray to that it makes me a truly stupider person. Not including the hideous drug abuse of my past, I'm convinced I've lost at least 9 perfectly good IQ points reading about myself and my band over the years. It's a given by now that the internet has indeed given every moron with more than three digits, a phone line, and a very loose grasp of English and it's syntax, a "voice". But, man...fuck...really?
I've only been to Blabbermouth.com maybe a dozen times, tops, in the last 7 or 8 years. Usually during one of my bi-annual, self-congratulatory internet search outings. You type in my band's name, and that bastion of good taste invariably pops up. But, hey, it's usually good for a laugh, and will almost definitely make you feel better about yourself as a human being in general. It's like being in a small room with one drunk guy screaming "Slayer!", one smug "insider", two guys attending "engineering" school, 23 guitar players, and a smattering of homophobes, half-wits, and lonley, angry, stoned 15 year-olds.
Basically, the youth of America. But they all love the metal. And you're a fag.
Anyway, apparently my band does not garner favor over there in IntelligentsiaHills. I think it may be that our logo isn't pointy enough. That, or we're either too hard or too easy to define. Too hard because there's a lot of stuff in there. I'm biased, but it's factually not a case of "if-you've-heard-the-first-2-tracks-you've-heard-the-whole-shtick". Too easy, because if you're not Slayer, well, you obviously "suck balls".
Tangent: I had a new section of our ridiculously expensive red leather Natuzzi couch delivered this afternoon. When you spend more that $3 grand on a couch, that fucker better be right. So they finally replaced the fucked up section they delived last month. One of the delivery guys took great interest in the Glock 23 I had on the coffee table. The guy in the kitchen estimating the patio door issue just looked kind of...edgy.
Segueway to...I am now, by the state of Minnesota and 13 other states, legally allowed to carry a concealed handgun.
And boy, do I. Everyday. Miami-style, I'm told.
Trusted citizen and all that. Who would of thought? The proud owner of a .40 caliber Glock (23), and a Taurus 1911 .45 ACP...all stainless steel and gold with pearl grips...a sexy fucking gun. I sent my brother a picture of it the day I bought it. His reply?
"G-g-g-g-g-g-gansta."
Alright, I'm done. Bored and losing focus.
I read my own press. I've got the cojones to admit it. I'm not one of those elitist doughboys that will look you in the eye, light a cigarette, bend you over, and blow smoke up your ass about how I "never read about myself". I do, and I do it until my eyes bleed...or until I think about some Alisha Klass video that I need to steal from the ethers...whichever comes first. It's refreshing, actually. An affirmation, reminding me how much better off I am upstairs than the majority of the population that are stealing my precious oxygen, especially anyone that religiously and obsessively comments on rock/metal forums and/or message boards.
Probably every six months I'll pull the aforementioned idiot move, and I swear to whatever god you pray to that it makes me a truly stupider person. Not including the hideous drug abuse of my past, I'm convinced I've lost at least 9 perfectly good IQ points reading about myself and my band over the years. It's a given by now that the internet has indeed given every moron with more than three digits, a phone line, and a very loose grasp of English and it's syntax, a "voice". But, man...fuck...really?
I've only been to Blabbermouth.com maybe a dozen times, tops, in the last 7 or 8 years. Usually during one of my bi-annual, self-congratulatory internet search outings. You type in my band's name, and that bastion of good taste invariably pops up. But, hey, it's usually good for a laugh, and will almost definitely make you feel better about yourself as a human being in general. It's like being in a small room with one drunk guy screaming "Slayer!", one smug "insider", two guys attending "engineering" school, 23 guitar players, and a smattering of homophobes, half-wits, and lonley, angry, stoned 15 year-olds.
Basically, the youth of America. But they all love the metal. And you're a fag.
Anyway, apparently my band does not garner favor over there in IntelligentsiaHills. I think it may be that our logo isn't pointy enough. That, or we're either too hard or too easy to define. Too hard because there's a lot of stuff in there. I'm biased, but it's factually not a case of "if-you've-heard-the-first-2-tracks-you've-heard-the-whole-shtick". Too easy, because if you're not Slayer, well, you obviously "suck balls".
Tangent: I had a new section of our ridiculously expensive red leather Natuzzi couch delivered this afternoon. When you spend more that $3 grand on a couch, that fucker better be right. So they finally replaced the fucked up section they delived last month. One of the delivery guys took great interest in the Glock 23 I had on the coffee table. The guy in the kitchen estimating the patio door issue just looked kind of...edgy.
Segueway to...I am now, by the state of Minnesota and 13 other states, legally allowed to carry a concealed handgun.
And boy, do I. Everyday. Miami-style, I'm told.
Trusted citizen and all that. Who would of thought? The proud owner of a .40 caliber Glock (23), and a Taurus 1911 .45 ACP...all stainless steel and gold with pearl grips...a sexy fucking gun. I sent my brother a picture of it the day I bought it. His reply?
"G-g-g-g-g-g-gansta."
Alright, I'm done. Bored and losing focus.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
No Title
You know, I went through a period, from about November 2007 to April 2008, where I worked furiously on demos. With the help of my keyboardist, I learned from the ground up how to record on a computer. I mean, I knew the process...the theory....but had no hands on practice at doing it all by myself. So I bought some gear, stole some programs, and got to work. Five days a week, all day long. Next thing I know I've got 16 demos for our next record. Complete demos. In my eyes (and ears) some really unbelievable shit. Compared to our earlier demos for our last 2 records, these to me are light years ahead. Of course, there's no vocals on anything....
I should mention that during this time, my singer was a fucking chemical wreck. I had (and have) been sober since the winter of 2007, but he just hadn't figured it out yet. Finally, a little over 4 months ago, he decided he had had enough, went to treatment in California, and has been there since. Sober. Safe. Thank god.
I bring it up, because I have not recorded almost anything new in probably 3 months. A bit here and there, but not the creative downpour I had last fall. Maybe it's writer's block. Maybe it's that it's taking awhile to get settled...I just moved into a house with the love of my life and finally have a "real", dedicated studio to work in. Maybe it because I'm happy (?!?!)...I've heard it said that the worst thing for an artist is happiness...although I think that's just a bunch of bullshit and I'll continue to strive and prove that wrong...
But I think it's moreso that I have this nagging "Maybe-it's-all-for-naught" thought. Like, why keep huffing along when he might not be "feelin' it"?; as he was wont to utter while in the throes of heroin...then again you can barely feel getting hit in the face with a baseball bat when you're nodding out, so I should really take that sentiment with a grain of salt. Or, what if he falls back to the "darkside" again (yeah, I know...it's a douchebag word, especially when used in this particularly VH1-ish context...just deal with it) ? I know that I DO NOT have it in me to wait for that motherfucker again if he decides he needs to go do more research for another year...as much as I love him, I've got music to make and shit to do. I stopped waiting for myself, and I've stopped waiting for other people. Of the last 12 months, 8 of them were spent having no idea where my singer was, or if he was even alive. No one will ever truly know (well, almost no one) how extremely close I was to closing down the shop. Real. Real. Fucking. Close.
So as every day passes, and we get further away from what the public perceives as "us", I'm excited and scared at the same time. When you take away the needles, and the trauma, and the craziness, and all the hype bullshit, what's left?
Oh yeah...kick ass tunes.
No more tanks. No more death squads. No more needles. No more 333's. No more clowns. No more pills. No more skulls. The past? Got it...Check...I'm moving forward, yes? Here's to joining me.
To the land of 0's and 1's I go...and in deference to this post, I gotta a great new song taking shape.
I should mention that during this time, my singer was a fucking chemical wreck. I had (and have) been sober since the winter of 2007, but he just hadn't figured it out yet. Finally, a little over 4 months ago, he decided he had had enough, went to treatment in California, and has been there since. Sober. Safe. Thank god.
I bring it up, because I have not recorded almost anything new in probably 3 months. A bit here and there, but not the creative downpour I had last fall. Maybe it's writer's block. Maybe it's that it's taking awhile to get settled...I just moved into a house with the love of my life and finally have a "real", dedicated studio to work in. Maybe it because I'm happy (?!?!)...I've heard it said that the worst thing for an artist is happiness...although I think that's just a bunch of bullshit and I'll continue to strive and prove that wrong...
But I think it's moreso that I have this nagging "Maybe-it's-all-for-naught" thought. Like, why keep huffing along when he might not be "feelin' it"?; as he was wont to utter while in the throes of heroin...then again you can barely feel getting hit in the face with a baseball bat when you're nodding out, so I should really take that sentiment with a grain of salt. Or, what if he falls back to the "darkside" again (yeah, I know...it's a douchebag word, especially when used in this particularly VH1-ish context...just deal with it) ? I know that I DO NOT have it in me to wait for that motherfucker again if he decides he needs to go do more research for another year...as much as I love him, I've got music to make and shit to do. I stopped waiting for myself, and I've stopped waiting for other people. Of the last 12 months, 8 of them were spent having no idea where my singer was, or if he was even alive. No one will ever truly know (well, almost no one) how extremely close I was to closing down the shop. Real. Real. Fucking. Close.
So as every day passes, and we get further away from what the public perceives as "us", I'm excited and scared at the same time. When you take away the needles, and the trauma, and the craziness, and all the hype bullshit, what's left?
Oh yeah...kick ass tunes.
No more tanks. No more death squads. No more needles. No more 333's. No more clowns. No more pills. No more skulls. The past? Got it...Check...I'm moving forward, yes? Here's to joining me.
To the land of 0's and 1's I go...and in deference to this post, I gotta a great new song taking shape.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Maiden Voyage
I didn't think too long about starting this blog. The "why's" and what have you. I actually stumbled upon Eric Avery's (ex-Jane's Addiction) blog on here, and figured if it's good enough for a semi-recluse genius like him, I could struggle to swim with greatness...trying to keep my head above the oxygen line.
I wanted somewhere where I wasn't tied to band "updates": when are we playing Minneapolis? (not soon), when are we going to be back in the U.K.? (no idea), how's the new record coming? (slowly and steadily), do we wanna smoke out with you when we get to (insert US city here)? (no, we do not)....you rock blah blah blah...it's flattering, but it all starts to run together after awhile.
However, I wanted to be able to bitch about industry related bullshit while also detailing what has become a very happy and contented personal lifestyle. Since I don't think anyone on my band's Myspace page gives a shit that I spent this early afternoon hanging hooks in my closet for my wonderful girlfriend's massive and ever-growing purse collection...well, hopefully you understand.
So, yeah...there's that.
I wanted somewhere where I wasn't tied to band "updates": when are we playing Minneapolis? (not soon), when are we going to be back in the U.K.? (no idea), how's the new record coming? (slowly and steadily), do we wanna smoke out with you when we get to (insert US city here)? (no, we do not)....you rock blah blah blah...it's flattering, but it all starts to run together after awhile.
However, I wanted to be able to bitch about industry related bullshit while also detailing what has become a very happy and contented personal lifestyle. Since I don't think anyone on my band's Myspace page gives a shit that I spent this early afternoon hanging hooks in my closet for my wonderful girlfriend's massive and ever-growing purse collection...well, hopefully you understand.
So, yeah...there's that.
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