From TOTALLY AWESOME!
to UTTER ABOMINATION
just plain wrong.
Kids DON’T say the darnedest things…
when they’re wasted!
HOWTO Make Christmas Exciting Again
HOWTO Make Your Coworker Burn His Nostrils With Hot Coffee
(Conversation at jobsite around Valentines Day…)
(And my job was done. Ta-daaaaaa!!)
Or How to Meet Women the Grouchosuave Way
12:30 am, a late Sunday evening in the warehouse: barefoot, on the couch letting sleep creep over me, I hear screamming from the parking lot, a woman screaming repeatedly “Hugo!! Stop!! NooNooNoo!!” These female screams escalate in that way that triggers total alarm and a primal part of my male brain. The intensity and pitch telling me ‘no time for shoes’, I manage to grab my framing hammer as I book down the hallway at a full run. I pass one of our lesser neighbors, “the Target,” in the hallway as I sprint towards the parking lot.
The scene: She sobs and begs nearly hysterically. The male pit bull she was babysitting and her Husky mix “Hugo” thrash as they keep their jaws locked onto each others throats. Her male roomie and the Target shuffle stupidly as I snap my head back and forth looking for a garden hose or a broom handle. (I learned the “Don’t Jump Into a Dogfight Barehanded” lesson about 20 years ago; An emergency room story for another time…)
I register her sobs and screams but I am barely even thinking or using language anymore… I’m kicking the pit in the heart at every opening just trying to get it to flinch and release… Surreal, looking for openings to swing the hammer and trying to choose which animal to smash in the head… I want to kick these stupid humans just as much, as they continue to either freakout and/or just do nothing but apparently, enjoy watching me do battle barefooted with two purposely bred fighting animals.
Bits o’ fabulence & crapulence.
First, for your own good…
Feel free to view image and zoom in for a refreshing dose of ‘authoritySpeak’…
Deep shades of “Politics and the English Language” indeed!! (George Orwell, fyi.) Groucho sez “Read it! Den Reread it!!”
A lil’ ephemera
“Good Beer and Sandwiches” …words to live by, my god.
And “The Glamour Shop” of Ralston, Nebraska manages to present the most un-glamourous image possible. Hail to Lost Irony, Nebraska!!
Totally fascinating, well designed and eminently useful site that categorizes and locates crime on a colorful, city map of Oakland. It’s the info that the bullshit local “news” or the cops or the neighbors seldom if ever share or even have. Also fun to see if your own impact makes a “splash.”
“Lookee Ma!! Stabbin’ that hobo in the street got our trailer park ‘on the radar.’ wOOt wOOt!!”
Not a whole lot of inspiration lately; been a little sick and been little beaten up by the new job. But here’s a link to a cool photoset I have posted on Flickr of my grandfather’s old photos. He grew up in rural Monterey County, California and enjoyed taking pictures of anything and everything. It has been nice getting to know him a little better even though he passed away a good number of years ago. Link
Babyland, Replicator, and some guys named Casy and Brian from Seattle at the 12 Galaxies, SF, Feb. 17, 2007
I am so exhausted and sweaty after this show that it is an extreme show of endurance just to write this crap at 2:18 in the morning. But you guys know the drill; it’s not really a “Drunken Show Report” if you sober up and wait until the morning to write it. So here it goes.
The Venue: 12 Galaxies in the Mission District:plenty of room, no jocks, good bartenders, an upper level to survey the scene with lofty abandon, a small, bar-sized pool table that sucks and a decent PA system. All things considered, a really decent place to see a show: nothing made me angry at all. Don’t bother though, with the $6 pseudo-slice of pizza from the so called kitchen: go outside and get a $3 bacon-wrapped hotdog from the El Salvadoran “Sausage Man” parked outside on the sidewalk. From strict experience, I know intimately that this is the way to go.
The openers: 2 guys who just moved down from Seattle (“and this is our first show in San Francisco.” woohoo) One guys smacks away at a drum kit while the other yells crap in a mic while pounding away at a $14.95 keyboard from the 80’s: “Revolution Now!” sez Casy/Brian? over some atonal caterwauling. Initially, it was particularly and scientifically engineered towards annoying the shit out of me: I yell to my pals and anyone within a 12.5 foot radius – “It’s like a seminar in how not to make music!!” They won me over though: what they were doing took a lot of balls and I liked their intentions, just not the tonalities, rhythms or sentiments coming out of their monitors. Yeah! Rock On, Brosephs!! Just do it for a short period of time at a comfortable distance, please.
Replicator: if “power trio” is an over used phrase, I still really don’t care; these guys bring a lot to the table: songs about robots, time travel, machines and encryption from WWII. Totally dork-tacular. The bassist and lead guitar/singer had the square glasses and all I was wondering was “Which one onstage knows FORTRAN?” I was screaming “IF THEN, GOTO, REPEAT % END STRING !!” to egg them on. In the middle of their last tune, “Log In With My Fist,” dork #2 (who we learned after the show while chatting with them, goes by the name of “Conan” while in the analog fleshly realm) finished most of the verses while jumping off the stage and milling throught the proto/mill-about pit in front of the stage. Go to their shows and give them something: at least a handshake and a “thank you.”
Ok – motherf***ing Babyland –
I don’t know if I should even try to describe their music and the experience… They are 2 guys who who make music with “instruments” made out of 55 gal. drums, power tools and computers that they have found mostly in the trash. And they are two guys who are so in tune with each other they barely have to make eye contact to whip some seriously percussive electronic junk punk straight into our joyful faces.
Imagine grabbing a 200 amp electrical service and holding on for the ride. Imagine a punk rock communion where you jump and pogo to give praise. I’m 38 years old and they never fail to propel my body into the pit and my head into the showers of sparks flying from their “drum kit” and grinders.
Their show are so cathartic and joyful, let’s put it this way:
Babyland shows keep me out of jail.
the wages of sin and construction
Yeah, I am a lot of things .
One of those things is a carpenter. I’ve been one for a good number of years now and it never ceases to amaze me how ridiculous some folks can be. As an apprentice, I used to be eager to mention that I was a carpenter but now I just steer as clear as possible of those introductory “O what do you do?” conversations. Putting aside the whole work-as-life assumption implicit in the question, it is inevitable that I’ll have to wade through the same gauntlet of stupid shit: “Oh it must be so great to work with your hands.” “God, I wish I got to work in the fresh air.” “At the end of the day, you actually get to see what you have accomplished…”
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck you and the ergonomic chair you rode in on.
That’s like me saying to some keyboard jockey “Oh, I’m a big fan of sitting down and coffee machines. Your job must be great.” “Walking around your job without falling through a hole in the floor onto some rebar must be awesome!” See, I can’t really peg your jobs with a smarmy comment or two because I DON’T KNOW WHAT IT IS LIKE IN AN OFFICE and I DON’T ASSUME A BUNCH OF SHIT ABOUT YOUR LIFE BECAUSE I HAVE WATCHED THIS OLD HOUSE A COUPLE OF TIMES.
When you picture my day in your mind and see simple men doing an honest days work, the salt of the earth heaving that load, lifting that bale, raising that wall in the sunshine like a bunch of sturdy Amish; beer loving cowboys cutting, making, and building a brave new world for you and me, you must have been thinking of a day like yesterday when I was up two stories, walking on the rafters, custom cutting a roof in the sunshine. Today I’m on my ass in the mud repairing crap that a stoned termite carpenter screwed up 4 years ago. It’s raining, I’ve ripped the crotch of my Carhartts, I have to spend half my day in the crawlspace rolling in piles of catshit, the bosses have screwed up payroll, and I just tagged my thumb with a chisel. Either way, either day, I am essentially spending a chunk of my life building equity into the homes of the wealthy.
At least with the rain I have a a frog keeping me company out there in the ivy.
I know you dumbasses are just trying to relate and I really should just lighten up. It’s just small talk and not all of you cube farmers are idiots. As a matter of fact, most of the IT maestros that I know (and that have never said stupid shit like the above) came out of construction – go figure. But it’s not that being a carpenter sucks: I’ve taken this path for a whole host of reasons. It’s being assumptive, boring and unthinking that truly sucks. So take your classist – ‘grass is greener’- workaday – live for the weekend bullshit and stick it up your ass. [Hear Me Now cuz here’s The Rub: ALL BOSSES MUST BE HUMORED, THE ‘GOOD JOB’ IS A BOURGEOIS MYTH and ALL WAGE SLAVERY IS SLAVERY. Grrrrrrr… Snarlll….]
Say whatever. Believe whatever you want. Be a Nazi. Be a Satanist, an evangelical Baptist, junkie nihilist, write D&D erotic fan-fiction… whatever. Have whatever opinion humanly possible and spew away. All I ask is that you use your brain a little before you say something to me. It’s a lot to ask, I know, but I’m gonna keep demanding it no matter what. I certainly don’t know everything about all things but –
What was that, Mr. Frog?… Ah yes, there are more things on heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our simple philosophy… I will call you “Horatio,” Mr. Frog… and if there is anything I like, Horatio, it’s a frog that knows his Shakespeare…
Oh shit. I’ve been chatting with a frog…
Whoops. Left the cap off the glue can. Heh.