Twangy

Brandon, the guitarist/keyboardist in The Wallpaper Thieves, has just made one of the most inspired moves thus far in the short life of this band. A couple of weeks ago, he dusted off his 1984 Kramer Baretta.


That's Eddie Van Halen, of course.

So Brandon has owned this slab since he was 16 or so, but stashed it for the past decade in favor of more subdued guitars like his Telecaster and more recently a Les Paul. Good guitars, but both missing something. And my god does this apex-of-the-hair-metal-era axe have it. When I was 12 or 13 (1987 or so), a Kramer Baretta was generally preferable to a swimming pool filled with greased naked ladies. All the badasses played Kramers. The closest any of my peers came was an Ibanez RG550, like the one C.C. played on Look What the Cat Dragged In. Neon yellow. Hot.

Yeah, so ANYWAY, Brandon pulled his Kramer out of the closet, set up the bridge, locked down the Floyd Rose tremolo and plugged the beastie into his Orange half-stack. Good heavens... This is what's been missing. All three of us wear our influences on our sleeves. You listed to the music and it's not too difficult a task to come up with a list of 10 or 15 bands who we blatantly rip off. However, Dave, the guitarist with Grappling Hook, who isn't even a fan of new wave or pop, paid us a compliment when he said there's no way to put a finger on us. But throughout the quagmire of chattering influences, what was MISSING was the cock rock. I think we had a perception of slickness and songcraft, but were missing the flash. Back in the day, Brandon was regarded as one of the hottest shredders in Central Arkansas. No shit. Time and taste have tempered the chutzpah of face melting solos, but without a doubt some of that festers in his soul still.

So as we're playing through the set today, Brandon is pulling off Van Halen-esque divebombs and flutters with the whammy bar, pinch harmonics, squealies, tapping runs, all that jazz. A few years ago this would have been hokey or some play on hip irony. But now it just works. The songs are rocking, he's wailing, and it all kicks ass. I haven't been so excited about a musical project in years. It may seem wistfully naive to think guys in their early 30s are basing major life decisions on a band. To be honest, this project is really the main reason I'm out here in NC. It goes beyond the band though. It's an essential creative outlet, something important that's been missing from my life for many years. In lieu of sex, we rock. We rock! And laugh our asses off. And I don't really give a shitty shit if no one else thinks we're any good whatsoever.

I've also been spending hours on my MIDI setup, teaching myself to play keyboard. I've written three complete songs on the Moog patch and a couple of more complex "things" on the Oberheim patches. One will be in the "working" roster soon. New Style American Girlfriend. That's the title. It involves switching between bass and keys and back three times. I can't wait to play for people. Drunk and leaping.

Quotables

Mittens,

I forgot to tell you that I enjoyed a long weekend at the beach with the ladies over the Labor Day weekend. While there, conversational topics took a number of (as you can imagine) twists and turns. The culmination of the weekend, I think, can be summed up in the following quote:

"I would let a guy stick a peeled banana up my vagina if he would let me shove raw hamburger meat up his asshole."

I thought that you would really want to hear this.

Yours,

Monkey

I have gray hairs (a poem)

I do.
In my beard.
I might count 20, more or less,
If I could be arsed to count..
Where did they come from?
Why are they here?
What do they mean?
Why am I seeing them just today?
Gray hairs.
In my beard.
Better than the clap.

-Mittens

Argh.

Mittens,

Would girls actually need to be present for you to dance like you've never seen a man dance? Isn't Billy Idol enough?

You know what sucks? I mean, I know a lot of things suck, but you know what one of those things is? Asking for a raise and getting turned down. It sucks. Especially when you really feel you deserve it. And when you have told yourself that if the raise didn't come through, then you would start looking for another job. Because the only thing (in the job realm) that sucks more than not getting paid what you think you deserve at a job you genuinely don't like - is being forced (by pride or circumstance) to whore yourself out to the job market.

I can't complain about this more than is necessary, because I am well aware that I am in a fortunate position given I still have a job and it's unlikely I will be fired. But, I know you will attest to the fact that getting out into the job market demands (at some points) for you to acknowledge you are largely applying for jobs you don't even want in the first place. And if you are subjecting yourself to that sort of soul-squeezing reality, then you must actually hate your current job. And I do. I feel little to no pride in the work that we produce, I am not convinced the work has a balanced return-on-cost benefit, I think my job involves a lot more tedium than it does creativity, and there isn't even an option for me to progress to a more interesting position. This is it! This is as far as I can go. The only thing that could possibly happen is that they would give me more money. And they won't (until February at the very earliest). Fuckers. So, now I have to become a whore. I guess all of this is to say: look out Mittens... there is a new working girl on the block.

Where in the hell have you been, anyway? Are you eating any vegetables? What happened at that second interview? TELL ME EVERYTHING!!!

Don't give up on me posting either. You have no idea what I have up my sleeve... my wizard's sleeve. BWA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!

Heart, Monkey

Consistency

If I'm at a party, and if maybe I've had a few beers and a few gin & tonics, and if there are females present, and especially if "Rebel Yell" comes on the hi-fi, I will dance like you've never seen a man dance.

There should be more parties.

Praying to Zoroaster

I'd simply like to announce that I just interviewed for an information manager position with the NC state retirement system, and I do hope I get the job. It's entirely creative and problem solving stuff, no dealing with the dreaded media or city councils whatsoever. Pays more than I was making in Texas, to boot.
After six months of unemployment and or/contract work and/or manual labor, I'm actually a bit excited about this. I know I know, the warped ideology of yet another office job. But I DO enjoy the public sector so long as it isn't pointless bureaucracy. It's the social benefit angle, I suppose. I'm not working in order to make one jerk at the top of the pyramid a cash silo of cash for him to feed his cash cows. Cash.
So, for what it's worth, I hope they liked me. That was as nervous as I think I have ever been during an interview. I feel like I talked too much, although I was able to provide good, solid responses to all of their questions, and there wasn't a skill or experience they asked about that I was lacking. I also hit them with three or four good q's of my own at the end (allegedly always a Good Thing). I tried not to talk badly about my last job or the one that never happened, and I know my references will pull through (Monkey dear, I may ask if you could tell them some nice things, since they asked if I had any local, personal refs in addition to my professional ones). So there you go. Interview Number Two in NC, and the first I scored by the sole virtue of my resume and cover letter. Let's hope this trend continues, barring my landing this one.

I could use a nap, although I feel very strongly about watching Ghostbusters. It's comfort food. Must also write about cars for my other gig.
"This man has no dick." Hit 'em again, Venkman!

-Mittens

I gotta know tonite, if you're alone tonite...

I want to retract something I wrote in that last post. Def Leppard was incorrectly categorized as fluffy bullshit. Monkey called me out on it, and having just come back from seeing the band play at Walnut Creek Ampitheatre here in Raleigh, I officially recant. I never meant it in the first place. Winger = fluffy bullshit. Def Leppard = badass second wave British hard rock.

God I do love that band. Hysteria and Animal are possibly my two favorite songs from the 1980s. The production for Gods of War would baffle Queen. Run Riot just rocks. And while I'm sick to death of Pour Some Sugar On Me (primarily as a result of my senior live television production project), the place exploded when they kicked into the chorus. They stayed away from Adrenalize, focusing on the perfection of High and Dry, Pyromania and Hysteria. Fine by me. Rock out with your you know what out. Weenus out.

Phil Collen is such an underrated AND underappreciated guitarist. He's really become the nexus of that band. The orchestration between him and Vivian Campbell was just amazing; Thin Lizzy, Priest, Maiden and Def Leppard did/do the twin guitar thing better than anyone. Love it! Although Joe's voice is failing a bit (just the high range, really), the instruments were spot on. Vocally, the other guys really punched up those classic harmonies, too. And Rick Allen was doing some pretty cool stuff with the drums. My buddy Ken, who's played for more than 20 years now, was commenting on his right hand technique... He would.
Yarp, damn fine rock show. Closed with Rock of Ages. Rock.

I was commenting to another friend, more of a question really - what kind of middle age are we going to have with regard to music? Which bands are we going to go digging through boxes to find that crusty old concert tee for? Most of the bands I followed late in high school or college have busted up or died. If the Pixies get back together when I'm 45 I'll poop a golden wristwatch that tells time in 12 different time zones. Or Pavement. Or Archers of Loaf. No, we're gonna get saddled with motherfucking Candlebox and Creed double-bills.

I also have to add that while I'm not a fan, Styx opened for Leppard and played The Grand Illusion in its entirity. That kinda rocked. Vocally they may be the tightest band I've ever seen (not ever having seen Queen or N'Sync). Four part harmonies throughout. Color me impressed! We did not, however, arrive in time for Foreigner. So much the better. I despise that band. Overplayed on classic rock radio to the point that I spontaneously fart lava and thumbtacks whenever one of their songs begins to play, I just can't tolerate them in the least. I'd rather listen to Toto. OK, I'd listed to Toto anyway. I'd arther listen to Sid Viscious' cover of My Way for an hour while being flicked in the gonads with one of those county fair rubber band guns. I hate Foreigner. Monkey, you defend that band and we're through. Finished. Done.

Instead, tell 'em about the time your mom wouldn't let you go to the Def Leppard concert with your sister. That story officially made me your friend.

-Mittens

Inner Revolution (with obnoxious comments from Monkey in italics)

As promised, I'm writing a few on the Adrian Belew gig last week (finally). I first became aware of the guy when my dad brought home what was the second McKinnon family compact disc (the first being Led Zeppelin IV)(Your dad was some sort of early technology adopter. My dad didn't even have a microwave until well into the 21st century). Paul Simon's Graceland. (My dad's copy was on vinyl, which made the liner notes easy to read.) I consider this one of the most important records in the development of my musical appreciation. I seem to recall The Joshua Tree and Graceland being the records that flipped the switch in my noggin which made me realize the difference between actual quality and fluffy bullshit. I still appreciate fluffy bullshit of course (we're seeing Def Leppard tomorrow, front row center thanks to a hookup with the radio station)(excuse me but I think you just referred to Def Leppard as fluffy bullshit. My inner twelve year old is flipping you the bird), but those two records in particular caused me to realize pop music had real artistic value. I started digging into my dad's Beatles, Who and Kinks records soon thereafter.(Because you had started to smoke pot.) I had a shitty acoustic guitar within the year.

Adrian was on Graceland. At the same time we got the disc, there was simultaneously an interview in Guitar World with him and Robert Fripp.(You really are a music nerd. Are you aware of music trivia at the 506 on Sundays? It's generally too hard for us normal folk.) I had no real awareness of Talking Heads or King Crimson (especially KC) at that time. That didn't happen until college, when I actually began to markedly improve on bass (resulting from the embarassment of playing in the basketball band and sucking out loud in front of 15,000 people at the SWC finals) and became interested in "difficult rock" (I loathe the prog nomenclature)(And so you use it endlessly). Two years later I was in a band with my oldest friend. A year after THAT Peanut Gallery was delving into abject stupidity. Race you to the end of the song was the motto.(And perhaps drove your sexual habits?) Cramming as many time signatures as possible into a three minute pop song was standard practice. We worshipped Rush and Genesis and The Police and Talking Heads, but were playing with our egos (as a brief aside, no band should ever wear capes and write 40-minute long songs, regardless of intent or talent)(as another brief aside, what besides ego are most bands playing with? Their geniune need for creative expression? Puh-leez). Then came the rock opera, effectively the bane of the group. The Feldmans (The Corey Feldmans?) followed a year later, which was a direct response to PG in that our goal was to get together a few times a week, get drunk and write ridiculous, self-effacing/self-referential prog rock (there it is) anthems. There are specific moments on the ensuing recording that could very easily be lifted directly from Moving Pictures, but in a laugh out loud sort of way. Laugh out loud if you're 100% geek, I suppose. (We know.)

During that period in the late 90s/early 00s, I was practicing a lot.(Are we already referring to the late 90s/early 00s as "that period?" That period was 8 years ago. Strange.) Not necessarily expanding my understanding of theory, but more my vocabulary. I got into the Heads (and Tom Tom Club), Bowie (finally), Minutemen, back into Pixies and Pavement, Guided By Voices, various post-rock outfits like Sea and Cake and Three Mile Pilot, Queen, Elvis Costello and Elton John (John Deacon, Bruce Thomas and Dee Murray are probably three of my favorite bassists; so melodic and supportive, but totally distinct in their styles... and regardless of the fact I play like an Entwistle obsessed, adderall laced chipmunk). The bulk of my 20s was spent flushing out the cock-rock vernacular and replacing it with substance and quality.("Flushing out" might be a strong way to put it, "repressing" might be more appropriate.) Maybe that's a bit pretentious to say and most likely impossible to achieve, as I am still known to drive away from work with Open Up and Say Ahhh... on the iPod and my outstreched arm flipping an unrepentant fuck you to The Man. I digress. (Thanks for supporting my point though.)

ANYWAY, Adrian Belew is a major component of that effort. I have nothing but respect for anyone able to forge a career in creativity without sacrificing personal principles. Whether those principles are getting laid and fucked up (a la Motley Crue)(all bands are better before they get sober) or writing and performing music for the sake of writing and performing music, the fact remains it's accomplished without denigrating whatever it was that urged them into that line of work to begin with. What I particularly appreciate about Belew, aside from his individualism (you have a man crush), is his sense of melody and songcraft. So may times I hear someone say his music is maybe what John Lennon would be writing were he still alive today.(Wait, how many times have you actually heard that?) I suppose stripped of the perfectly twisted guitar work - yes. Or maybe Adrian would be performing with Lennon, providing it. They seem cut from the same cloth. Count in the Tony Levin connection, and I s'pose (uh, are you in that much of a hurry there, Shorthand McGee?) it's not beyond the scope of reality.

To my mind, Belew exemplifies that iconic sort of modern-media artist, the Kubrick or Warhol or Prince, who is just creatively relentless, but populist.(Your master's degree just paid off.) How does one live like this? That constant output, all within the public eye. (I'm pretty sure the Benjamins are a constant source of motivation.) I know for a fact creativity isn't the sole element of those people's successes. I know plenty of creative people who don't do shit. Who sit at home waiting for something to happen to them, waiting for someone to recognize the power of their genius.(Amen.) There's more to it than creativity, obviously. Self promotion, conceit, work ethic, awareness that an audience exists for whatever it is you have to say (although Rush has an exceptional philosophy on the role of the audience in the creative process, I'll refrain from discussing here as I know most of you bastards loathe Rush) - components.(Loathing Rush does not a bastard make.) And like anything, if you become bored the art declines and you eventually just... stop. Or you resent success and those who established it. Jaz Coleman. Kurt Cobain. Et cetera. (You have time to write out et cetera, but not "suppose?")

ANYWAY, while I started this post as a review of the Belew show, I quickly realized it's been years since I've written a rock show review and had lost track of my goal by the second graf.(HAHAHA!! Graf!! Oh, Mittens. You are seriously warming my heart.) I apologize for the sophomoric ramblings, then. I do want to say that seeing Adrian play with, well, kids... kids half his age... siblings Eric and Julie Slick... who can easily hold their own against the best in the business, probably walk all over them actually, motivated his performance to a different level. He's always good, certainly, but everyone seemed to enjoy this gig more than the last go-round. Not that the last go-round was lacking, but that this one was looser and kookier. Ask Crimson fans - it's universal he's the best part of the show. Fripp has a stick up his butt... I should stick to writing about cars.

I should really be writing music.(And music reviews (that was not a cynical comment)). We (Wallpaper Thieves - http://www.myspace.com/thewallpaperthieves ) now have about 30 or so idea recordings from recent rehearsals, and I have a half dozen or so almost completed songs that need some tuning up. The band is going well, and shows like this one drive us with inspiration and a bit of hope. Brandon and I are slowly becoming a fairly formidible guitar section, and Ken remains the best drummer I've ever played with, regardless of the fact he no longer wants to play drums. Vocals and the damned Moogs are the biggest obstacles now. Albatrosses. With the Torch Marauder connection, we're hoping out premier gig will be sheer insanity. Good, bad, I'm the guy with the gun.(What does that mean?) As long as it's memorable. My dream is to play Run to the Hills or Aces High with Torch on vocals. That would rule.

Gonna learn the Oberheim parts for Rush's Signals now. Monkey, you can kick me later.(Done.)

One percent of one

I'll have to finish this later, as I'm utterly and perfectly knackered, but the Adrian Belew gig at Cat's Cradle was more or less mind blowing. More than less. I commented to Ken that we probably just saw members of the top one percent of living musicians. Tomorrow I'll write up some typically withering commentary of What This Show Means To Me.
And for what it's worth... Julie Slick, will you marry me?

Consider Darwin

You know how for decades, pathologists and virologists have predicted the human race will someday soon be decimated by a super-virus, a pandemic of ultimate doom? The streets littered with the festering, pox-riddled corpses of millions?
Nah.
The bane of the human race shall be the cell phone. Consider the below text and discuss.
(people are fucking morons)

-Mittens

Texting Man Avoids One Train, Struck By Another

http://www.wlwt.com/news/13930136/detail.html

CINCINNATI -- A man sending a text message avoided being hit by a train going in one direction only to be struck by another train.

Witnesses told police the man was looking down at his cell phone as he crossed some railroad tracks around 9 a.m. at Township Road and Elmwood Avenue in Elmwood Place.

Witnesses said the man waited for a southbound train to pass, put his head down and started walking across the tracks.

The man apparently did not see or hear a northbound train as it approached, witnesses said.

“It's one of those things, you kind of see it coming but you don't think it's going to happen like that, and the way he was walking and stuff and I saw that train closing in, I honestly thought he had made it,” said witness Mike Billups.

The victim, whose name has not been released, was taken to University Hospital with undisclosed injuries.

New name for this shit

At rehearsal last week, Brandon (the guitarist) suddenly remembered an old nickname he'd given me - Mittens. We can't remember the impetus for this, other than the fact it sounds funny. It then occurred to me that Monkey with Mittens would be a good name for this blog, so henceforth it shall be known as such.

Monkey with Mittens. That's good shit.

What IS postmodernity, anyway?

I started a new job last Tuesday, which is the exact cause of my lack of of posting. Job, you ask? Yarp. I'm working in a furniture warehouse, assembling, loading, unloading. moving. I'd classify it as manual labor, something I haven't done since I was 17. The job has left on the floor, me utterly sapped. I can point to my absolute lack of activity for the past several months as the main culprit for my physical state, but I can also say with qualification that the work is actually pretty fucking hard. It's hot, the shit is heavy, and there's a lot of it. Does this make me more of a man? Me eat meat now.

It was a strange realization on Saturday morning when I decided I wasn't dreading work. I'm finding myself actually enjoying it, to be perfectly honest. Perhaps it's the fact at the end of the day I can look at the loading dock and see the actual product of my labor? There's a tangible result. I'm realizing this is a major element of my sense of job satisfaction - working toward the actual creation and completion of someTHING. I think that's what I feel the need to play in bands, to engage in that writing and recording process. The live performance is always cathartic, but the creative process, even the labor process of arranging, rehearsing, recording, is gratifying in that there's a tangible end result. With most office jobs there's usually a project or task to be completed, but it seems so much of the work is only work in a post-modern sense. Email, phone calls, shuffling papers. It's a mobius loop of bullshit. Even when the job is completed, there rarely seems to be any real sense of accomplishment or even the possibility of saying to someone, "Look what I did."

I think I've pretty much quit drinking. What do you have to say about that?

Nothing to see here...

This is merely an observation. I've spent the past hour or so filling out job applications - by hand. The State of North Carolina has yet to jump on this spindly Interweb bandwagon and so requires job applicants to write, by hand, all application information on printed forms. My hand hurts so badly I had to stop for a bit. I can't remember the last time I wrote with a pen continuously for more than a few minutes at a time, usually while taking notes for work. But this is insane. I believe my hand has been getting plenty of exercise FROM PLAYING GUITAR. Get your minds out of the gutter. Besides, I'm a lefty when it comes to that.

One of my good buddies at my last job was the HR director, and I know for a fact he was generally unenthusiastic about hand-written applicatons simply because they were hard to read and information would often be entered into the applicant database incorrectly. It's simply inefficient. Why the state has not made the leap to either interactive online forms or if nothing else a pre-formatted PDF is just beyond me. It takes about a half hour to format a single-page PDF, and maybe another hour to set up the fields so they can be transferred to a database. Oh oh oh! And if you apply for more than one State job, you have to submit an entirely new application because none of the departments and divisions share an applicant database. What a bunch of cock knockers.

Whatever. I think I can finish now.
Applying for jobs blows buttholes, regardless of the process.

Oh, and I have listened to the remastered edition of The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway by Genesis about three times so far today. It's fantastic sounding. As epic and pompous as anything you've ever heard, but Peter Gabriel pulls it off cause he's Peter Fucking Gabriel. And shut up already, Monkey - Phil Collins was and remains a badfuckingass drummer, regardless of that Disney Tarzan abomination.




Does this thing have an effing spell checker? No? Please... Put that fucking coffee down. Coffee is for closers.

Why not talk about dating and sex?!?!

Oh, Morlock. I love it when you give me that easy in.

There are a number of cliched responses I could offer to what you've written below (and I probably will, over beers while you help me paint my house), but you've made some things float to my mind. First of all, this place is larger than you think, with a healthy, and largely well-educated, transient population. That means that there is a good chance that anyone you have the opportunity to tango with may well be gone in 6 to 12 months (if not by this weekend). This is also a place that supports strong, ambitious women - so worries about ruining your position as a nice guy are largely unfounded. Your worries should be about being eaten alive for breakfast by the ball-breakers you are certain to encounter in this neck of the woods.

And, as an aside - I am going to let you in on what could either be Spanish Fly or penis repellent to women our age: honesty. I know this smacks of the cliched response I made note to avoid, but it's true. You have no job and no permanent place to live (for now), but that's not exactly the same as having no ambition (or lacking the skills to fulfill an ambition) and no motivation for moving forward. The honesty thing is tricky though; if someone asked you what you've been doing with yourself in the space between jobs, would your honest answer be, well, interesting? Would it reveal something about your character or your personality? Is what you have been doing what you want to be doing to pass the time? If it is, good. If it isn't, then do what you want to be able to tell people that you do. Make yourself fuckable.

Trust me when I say that for women (well, at least some of them) it isn't all about jobs, or a thick head of hair, or the lack of a paunch when considering guys. Mostly it's about someone who has a life that they enjoy and who doesn't seem weighed down with baggage and dark, depressing shit (we've grown out of that phase of our lives where the dark, depressing shit is actually attractive). When it comes down to it, it's mostly about cracking up and feeling good and (god help me) being taken seriously every once in awhile.

And aren't most things cyclical? Why rationalize away a decreased libido? Wouldn't it make sense that not exercising and not feeling confident about what's happening at this exact moment would affect your interest in... performing? And, I hate to break it to you, but we aren't quite middle-aged, so it's too soon to start gathering those excuses. You're in a funk, and not in an inevitable and unavoidable lifestyle as a result of your chronological place on the life spectrum.

Okay, so maybe this did turn into a sort of cliched response, but fuck it. You know why we hate cliches? Because sometimes they are true and sometimes they apply to our lives and it's annoying.

So turn off the fucking television and get your ass down to the JC Penny. And fill out an application while you're there.

The Monkey

The problem with sleeping (around)

I fell asleep last night with a perfectly formed, fully evolved blog post leaping around my brain, like one of those horny little capuchin monkeys at the zoo (remember the time I went with Adam, Jamie, Trisha, Andrea and Jake to the Little Rock Zoo and we saw a baby gorilla, and a tiger growled at Adam and me, and then we watched two monkeys put on an Amsterdam-style sex show? Then we had Whole Hog ribs and went to the Travs game. Best day so far this year...) only to wake up with no concept of what it was. My fucking brain. Ken and I watched Mind Control last night, a show on Sci-Fi dealing with subliminal suggestion, hypnosis, brainwashing, etc. The creator and host, Derren Brown, was quite a notorious celebrity in England while I lived there, thanks mainly to a live Russian roulette special episode of his program on Channel 4. After seeing a few episodes of the American version of the show, we have decided this man could possibly be the most evil man on the planet. He can persuade almost anyone to do almost anything, using nothing more than psychology. It's really fascinating stuff, to consider our will, beliefs, ideals, motivations, can all be redirected, modified or simply erased by someone who possesses a better understanding of how and why the mind does what it does. How deeply embedded in our being is this stuff? Is it just programming? Simple software ticking over within our biological computers? I'm sure if Sartre were alive to see this program he'd weep tears of bitter joy into his absinthe.

Seeing as how I really have nothing of value to discuss, why not talk about dating and sex. Great job! Without going into too much detail, I haven't gotten any of either in quite some time. And now I'm starting to think about it more frequently. For a time, and not too long ago, I was actually beginning to feel as though I was losing interest in sex. Not totally, but definitely in a significantly reduced capacity. I suppose I measure this by the declining frequency of doing what all boys do, or any oopsies while sleeping if I did skip a day or two. While it's a fact that as men age into their 40s, they do lose some sex drive. By this point, men have procreated and the biological need for sex is no longer present. In addition to the cruelty of nature (or possibly mercy), there's definitely a self-confidence/image issue at play. I'm taking less of a Steve McQueen or Paul Newman path into middle-age, instead being forced down the far less glorious Hank Hill Route. Thinning hair on the head (which is obviously retreating to other locations on the body), paunchy middle, flattening ass. The obvious defense is exercise, which I have successfully avoided avoided for the past few months. A year ago I was running 20-24 miles per week, thanks mainly to my running partner's marital issues. We would run for hours, talking through his life. Do you want to get a divorce? Do you want to fuck your boss? Why did you do that? Etc. Once the issue was resolved however (everything worked out and they now have a kid), we stopped. He began working out in the mornings with his wife to reforge that sweet, sweet connubial bliss. I just got fat.

Now I am in a new city, one seemingly teeming with amazing single women. And the fire in my pantses has been rekindled. The ensuing conundrum revolves around my ongoing self-image issues (coupled with the fact I have no job and no place to live). I can't really date at this time, but this place is so small that I can't really just get it on with whomever (I also consider the strong possibility anyone I'd want to get it on with would also be someone I would want to date at a later, more suitable time) without damaging my stature as a nice guy and thus future dating possibilities. This is also ignoring the fact that in my present condition, I don't know if I could actually attract anyone worthwhile (ie without paying them) for said wiggle wiggle woo-ha. What's a geek to do? Is Internet dating the solution? Maybe? I could also consider older women. Cougars. That's what my mom called them. I think she has a lot of couger friends - overworked, overstressed elementary school teachers with frustrated libidos. I suppose that's an experience every man should have. Where do you go to pick up older women? JC Penney?
(that's awful... I should have never even mentioned that thought... apologies...)

Watching Star Trek now - keeps my mind of the na-na na-na. Or maybe just keeps it away... Women can smell Trek on a man, can't they? Can't you?

Engage.

Not even letting it dry out...

Dear Monkey,
We should make good use of the novel inspiration of this new project before it becomes a burden. It's a new girlfriend and I'm going to make her hate me within the first week. In a good way.

I do agree with Monkey on the previous post, in that satisfaction with life (in general) isn't some condition you amble into (despite what the movie Doc Hollywood might have us believe), but a state of mind that almost has to be constructed from various, possibly disparate elements of your life into a single cohesive structure. Occasionally wind and rain are going to leak through, maybe a few snakes and varmints will find a gap in the floorboards to sneak through, but on the whole if the structure is sound the occupant will be a happy camper. Or happier than most. My problem has always been the most fundamental foundation...

To be honest, I'm sick of talking about my situation. It feels like the more I fixate upon it, the more solipsistic or even misanthropic I become, and that's certainly not the goal.



I have to interject a minor digression: tonight I'm going with a few friends to see a movie. Transformers, most likely, as we're all roughly early 30-ish and most certainly dorks. A member of this motley troupe of Rush-shirt wearing uber geeks is Torch Marauder. I'm quite excited about this. Brandon asked on Sunday, "Hey man, you wanna go see Transformers with Torch Marauder?" I peed an affirmative.



I suppose what I'd like to mention today as a discussion topic (something probably more suited for a PhD dissertation) is The Prisoner. Ken and I finished the Arc (episodes 1-5, 16-17) last night. There are ten more episodes that complete the series, but do not actually constitute part of the story arc. Still, worth watching! I digress (again). If you are interested in the potential of television, world-class acting, Shakespeare, true sci-fi, the nature of society, civil disobedience, the preservation of the individual, the conflict between humanity and technology, the oppression of unjust and inhumane authority, truth, love, nationalism, education and indoctrination, or general spy-story intrigue, then you should devote seven hours of your life and a couple of weeks worth of Netflix to this series. It can be frustratingly allegorical, particularly the last three hours, and never really gives the sense that it is a complete story (per se), but it is enormously rewarding in that when you're done with the last episode, sitting in a stew of impressionistic visual imagery capable of exploding David Lynch's cock, your brain will be working. It may not be happy, but it will be working.

It's no surprise that nothing broadcast on television since (original air dates were 1967-68, a contemporary of Star Trek) has even dared approach the same degree of, well... art. The fall out from the last episode (coincidentally and appropriately titled Fall Out) bordered on violent. Writer/director/star Patrick McGoohan was all but forced to flee England due to the degree of violence threatened by melty headed fans after the airing of that final episode. To be fair, more than once I looked to Ken, mouth agape, the words "What the fuck am I seeing here?" going unspoken - the look conveyed the sentiment. It is so unlike anything I can't draw any sort of logical or even illogical comparison. You can certainly argue there have been programs and entire series that redefine(d) the concept of quality television. Obvious contenders like The Sopranos, Simpsons, Band of Brothers, MASH, etc represent the outside limit of what television is capable of in terms of dramatic/comedic art. The Prisoner is entirely another animal. I encourage you to at least take a look at the Wiki entry. It's certainly not going to appeal to everyone, but I think most of our readers are of the more curious, intellectually astute variety of human and may appreciate what the series represents. I'll reserve my own perception and analysis for any comments from folks who have seen it (or will see it).
I just reread this entry and realized how artifically intellectual it all sounds. Well fuck you, I aint changing it. I mean it. I want you to watch The Prisoner. The listen to Iron Maiden's song of the same name. Cause it fucking rocks.

I am a big fucking dork. Just in case you were not aware.



So I'm off to find a Kinko's to print off a few state applications. I made myself promise I'd never seek another public information job, yet here I go again on my own.

PHRASE AND/OR COMBINATION OF WORDS THE MONKEY MAY NEVER AGAIN USE IN MY PRESENCE: She had a cunt like a wizard's sleeve.

Sloppy Seconds

A truly commendable first post, Morlock. My hat is off to you. And so is my shirt.

The Monkey here. For once (and only once, and also probably for the last time) I must admit that the Morlock is not exaggerating about his lot this year. It has truly sucked and I can't imagine the ass whipping your pride and ego have been taking. As someone well acquainted with the tooth aching sensitivity that bruised pride fosters, and as someone who is sometimes as equally motivated by ego as by morals, I think it is a big fucking deal that you have managed to pull yourself out of what had become a mocking and oppressive environment and that you found your way east to (at the very least) reconnect with people who nurture your creative and, frankly, dorktastic tendencies. I'm proud of you. No, seriously. It takes courage to make a blind leap of faith. Even if you whine and complain about it the entire fucking time.

Here is the thing about leaps of faith, though: the process blows. Any potentially life altering decision or risk that we make in our lives has to be built around a belief in something more enjoyable, fulfilling, exciting, healthy, or logical than what we are (or were) doing when the decision is made. It might be about changing jobs or leaving a marriage or moving to a new town or learning keyboards when you're really just a rusty trombone player. The point is, once the decision is made, your work is to deal with the decision and whatever comes along with it. It's too fucking late to second guess yourself. Of course, the decision is the easiest thing to try to undo, which is why at some point we all inevitably choose that route (like not leaving the crap job or the crap relationship). But the smart thing, the brave thing, the hard thing that will get us closer to a better mental state of mind is to follow the motivation that made us make the decision in the first place. To try. And then to keep trying. Because, what the hell else are you going to do? Satisfaction isn't some elusive place on a map and it certainly has nothing to do with the dollar amount on your paycheck (I don't think... maybe I just don't get paid enough). Satisfaction, like most things associated with happiness, happens in moments, in flashes. And the most rational way to make those moments happen more often is to somehow align your actions with your beliefs. It seems increasingly difficult to find professional positions where that specific opportunity exists, so as much as possible, you have to attempt it in your regular life.

Now, granted, this may just be my contrived way of saying, "Don't be a pussy! Stay here and be creative with your friends and trust that something will work instead of running back to Shitville, Texas for a paycheck you would likely blow on lager and whores." But, I'm pretty sure that if I wanted to say that, I just would.

- The Monkey

The official red carpet premier... (paint and blood)

The Morlock speaking. Figuratively speaking. In Raleigh, shark attacks on Discovery Channel, old coffee in the air. We have discussed this idea for years, The Monkey and I. Violent arguments regarding who should be The Monkey and who should be The Morlock prevailed for months, but it was settled amicably and at long last we have arrived at the writing process. How I loathe it. The Monkey's kung-fu is strong however, as I am indeed putting pen to paper. Figuratively speaking.
So what do we discuss for this, our first post? For those of you who know me, I have of course experienced what is quite likely the most horrifying, spirit crushing, ass-raping year of my life. I don't even think that's unnecessary hyperbole, although others may disagree. I'm tired of the set-up, but for purpose of providing some context... I lived in Austin, I had a job, I quit the job because it was killing me, I accepted a job in another country, I was deported from that country because proper procedures for obtaining entry were not pursued, I became very depressed while sleeping the day away in my nearly empty Austin apartment while pondering options, then decided to retreat to my hometown (big mistake), before finally deciding to move myself out east to be with friends, play music and just see what happens. It's been a month.
So what I have is a two-sided conundrum. After a month here, I am running out of savings and must find a source of income posthaste. Every day I shoot resumes across the landscape like a salvo of Peter North's organic mortar rounds after waiting three days (I haven't gotten any na-na-na-na in a while and have thus been watching what is probably too much porno - sorry, mom). On the one hand, I very much feel the need to just stop the wandering and make somewhere my home. I felt Austin might have accommodated that scenario, but after the events of the Great Anal Clusterfuck of 2007, I just couldn't. Here (Raleigh/Chapel Hill) I have many friends, specifically two old cronies who form the core of my long-lost gang of insanity. We have already started getting ready to play gigs (Wallpaper Thieves - we have stuff on myspace) and thinking up ideas for new film projects. I've needed this more than sex. An enema for my creative constipation. I also have other old friends like The Monkey, who bring with them entire, complete gangs of weirdos who already feel like friends. Seems ideal, aside from the unemployment issue. And as I mentioned, I'm working that shit like a monkeygrinder.
But what if by focusing on this narrow spectrum, geographically speaking, I'm missing another opportunity elsewhere? Of course I am. At the moment, it's a tree in a forest sort of deal. I'm not looking elsewhere so I don't know what I'm missing. Back to the foreign employment situation, I never would have encountered that had I not decided to quit the job I had. And while it obviously left me with a gaping wound, it did confirm that on occasion I do in fact have more guts than I give myself credit for. But what else is out there. professionally speaking? What would I be happy doing, and where? At this moment, I have a near-future opportunity to say yes to a high-paying job in west Texas. It would likely be somewhat boring and unfulfilling, and the less said about Midland the better, but it would certainly lay other opportunities before me, either a result of connections or income made.
Although I've never been part of what one could consider a successful relationship, I feel this is an undeniably similar situation. Do I stay and strive to make it all work out or leave for (possibly) greener pastures? Of course I realize most of this doubt and negativity is a direct result of the shit-sucking process of applying for work, as well as the fallout of the oft-mentioned butt-fucking of the first six months of the year. And I probably just need to get laid. But I must also consider the possibility I'm just a malcontent butthole who will never be satisfied with my lot in life. Not that anyone SHOULD be satisfied, but sometimes I wonder if it's not a pathological state of mind, or what it would require to finally set at ease that part of my brain that gives rise to those feelings.

So on an unrelated subject, I've spent several hours today practicing keyboards. I've been a bassist for about 15 years, and also played trombone from 7th grade through college (I was band president, in case you need some future joke catalyst), however I was never subjected to the inhumanity of piano lessons. Now that I'm in what is essentially a new-wave band, I'm forced into filling out the sound with occasional synth work. Surprisingly, it's not as difficult as I expected. I'm more or less just memorizing patterns, and because most of the patches we're using are analog and monophonic, I don't have to worry about separate bass/melody lines or even chords. Drop an MP3 of the song into GarageBand, set up my voice patch and play along until I know the part. I think the show-stopper (and I mean that in potentially positive AND negative connotations) will be switching from bass to keys and back within a song. We are planning some neato shit, with multiple instrument swaps and extreme genre-hopping. I don't know how it'll fly with the crowds around here, but for the three of us it's retardedly entertaining. In rehearsals we just sit around and drool with pleasure, bumping our heads up against the fucking walls.

Don't fear the reaper,
-The Morlock