Going Real, Real Soft.

Written over A Muppet Christmas Carol and the urge to not have another Coca-Cola. I fear I may lose this one. I cannot stress enough that I firmly believe countless world ills could be solved through mass viewings of this film. I plan to take that plan to the world stage as soon as humanly possible. When I can afford it, I will be the guy who gives everyone the same present, maybe a VHS copy just to stay true blue. It could happen. Disney's first and only real Muppet success. The best soundtrack of any movie I have ever seen. This will make me cry if I watch the whole thing.



Tomorrow I have the pleasure of attending "If you want to teach in our schools, we need to make real damn sure you're not going to touch our kids DOWN THERE" class for Catholic school teachers. I'm very excited.

There is also the prospect of a new van tomorrow, as Tyler has found a potential lead. It sounds good to be true, so I may wound up robbed and dead tomorrow night. We'll see.

I worked today. Oh the things. Most of the kids don't do their work. Most of them are confined to poverty and have no hope of escaping. There are bi-annual shootings in the neighborhood. Former principals who set up puppet review boards that their grifter boy toys sat on and would later run off with large amounts of money. Had I not worked at the alternative school with Dad, I never would have been prepared for this. But chalk that shit up. Cash register sound and every other inexcusable reference I could make in regard to the job of teaching young people. I am a glorified babysitter when it comes to schools like these, unfortunately. I am doing no child any good, other than maybe having a one-on-one conversation about a book or record or hair-styling.

I love our home, because it feels like a home. My exponentially-increasing love of holiday lights may be getting on G's nerves, but this is the first holiday season I have been able to experience without scary tests and papers to write in well over eight years. I will bask in it. Just as the big snow comes this way.

Good grief the things I have to be thankful for. My heart is far lighter this year than the fear and loathing of not knowing anything about my future this time last year. I matured more from 22 to 23 than 18 to 22, for better or worse.

I mean it when I say I feel cheap and shallow when I am happy. That's never worked well for me. I know I'm going to die and am terrified about it, there are a million things wrong that I have no control over, and I'm preparing to weep at some damn puppets momentarily, but my heart is still full and I hope to pass on whatever I can. I feel love.

Better than holding

I am listening to "Punkrocker" ft. Iggy Pop on repeat (and more so the Thomas Rusiak hip hop parody "Hiphopper"). Once a week I wish I was in a music video just driving around in a car. That's it. My Aim is True will go on shortly thereafter, as I think I may enjoy it finally at this point in my life. Me and the Elvis have not agreed, but the Sioux Falls Thanksgiving has made me reconsider, again.

We did a radio sessions thing tonight for one of the college stations and a number of realizations have made themselves known:

-We have changed. Oh boy, have we changed. We used to be the sound guy's wet dream (three amps, two vocals, all right that's it!). Now when the sound guy asks what we have going, we cringe. "Well, everybody is singing so four mics and the amp mics, one out for the piano, one out for the keyboard, one out for the other keyboard, and two outs for Danny's samplers." They just hang their heads in anger and shame. I think we've worked out a system with our own mixer and just running the one line out to the mains...otherwise we will be hated by sound engineers everywhere. That being said, and other than our continuing vocal training -->

We laid down the shit tonight. We are as good as we have ever, ever been. I enjoy playing our songs because it's hard. There is so much crap to do. It's challenging, nearly every song. We are busy, and it is fun. The risk of ruining songs has increased exponentially, but the payoff has increased just as much, if only personally. I can't run my voice ragged like the old days, and I am not going to have the freedom to lose it completely, but that means that there is so much more open potential to truly make a musical landmark. Still a show, but real music. That's how I feel this week, anyway.

Things are finally getting busy, and I feel wonderful. I have no money, still. Virtually none. We have no van, no money for CD reproduction, and no leads. But we've got the live thing together. That's a real start.

Porkins Living, Etc.

Now that it's almost bed time, I feel it completely necessary to comment on a particular dream last night that though obviously not fresh, I still retain a healthy portion of gist, though probably not enough for anecdotal satisfaction. I can that I knew that I was preparing to die because for whatever reason my life had to be over at a particular time. I was fully conscious that I had to go sit in a chair and my life would be over forever and ever. Some family was there, but it was thought commonplace and a routine fact of life, I remember a sort of line of "see you later"s. I was scared out of my mind, but for some reason (and for the first time) I was able to face it head on without loosing it and didn't wake up with the flowing tears as the protocol for that particular dream usually mandates. I was able to begrudgingly accept my own mortality, if only in a dream, for a few seconds. I sort of see that as the beginning of this long, goddamn horrible road to the same conclusion as everyone else. Continually wishing and hoping for some sign of the amusement park at the end of the ride only to realize your ass has been tilt-a-whirling for the pass 90-some odd years. Bless this mess. Now I clean because the bear o' G is home tomorrow from her business trip, which is convenient as another day of her gone would mean serious and severe consequences for my mental and sleeping preferences.

Hoover Flags

It's late and Fight Club has just been put it for the wind down. I've watched two DVD collections of Dark Shadows in a little under a week. About eight episodes per disc and eight discs. Upon reflection, I'm impressed with that sad accomplishment. We went to the Brew 'n View tonight and saw the double feature of Inglourious Basterds and Pulp Fiction. I spent most of the time wondering about how much time I waste on movies and how that will account into my personal inventory just before I pass away. I hope it will be positive.

I've undertaken far more responsibility with band business than I ever have in the past, mostly because the one guy in charge of it has consistently done a job that would embarrass even Joey's boss's cover band. Unfortunately, this has mostly meant reaching out for help to people I trust, and means Egan is knee deep in graphic design templates required for CD pressing and Dad inundated with questions about trailer titles and other fantastic conversational pieces. I owe money to people I respect and appreciate far too much to owe money to, and I've applied for a credit card to max out so we can afford to press records. This is my choice and I have received so much damn help thus far with record payments and general back-slapping that it would be a sin to scrap it now. But lord am I in deep this time. Hopefully work beginning Thursday and that would serve to at least stifle the wolves at the door. Back off the porch. I've become much fonder of repeating, "If you want it done right..." lately, and the bright light there is I know I'll never let anybody really take over and start selling shirts with butterflies on them (No first names, but ends in "182"). Crash course in iMovie and this Christmas thing I think is going to be my most favorite thing we've done yet. A record I can be proud of, first time caller. Not satisfied with, but I can at least stand behind the damn thing this time.

This time next year, maybe I'll be paying rent with the rocks and rolls. The spring time might see us in England. Maybe a label that gives a damn. Maybe I can buy other people presents instead of accepting them. Until then, I will continue making the present about more than hoping for the future. This has been such a lousy post I feel the need to dirty it up a bit:

Something I love:



I appreciate you following this continued self-hyping-up to deal with that which I feel genetically handicapped in coping with. Need more Mom in my veins. That would be more Fitzgerald.

Barnabus

I've got to attempt this deep in Dark Shadows discs and importing camera footage. Personal highlights have included thinking about my favorite "Donnie" moment from Big Lebowski when Walter cuts loose in the theater with his last hard slam. I can start laughing just thinking about it. Great googaly that scene is one of the funniest in film.

Tomorrow I go in to get my BADGE. MY TEACHER BADGE. I should be able to start earning monies this week. Holy.

The record's being mastered. No desire to jump into retellings there. The highlight was laying down piano on two verses of one song. I'm not sure why, but it was the most fun for me.

I was drug to karaoke last night and wound up doing "99 Problems" which the only black man there found enjoyable and then made me sing the hook to the DMX song about "Up in here, up in here" and it was recorded to cassette tape by the karaoke moderator. I have a copy. This DJ man would pull out pretend instruments(necks of guitars, inflatable saxophones) and play them while people sang. During a man in Looney Toons regalia's rendition of "Faithfully" by Journey, he pulled out a fake piano and sat down and turned a light on himself and pretended to play along. I tipped him heavily. He is an instant classic in my mind. On the same note, I've listened to that Journey song four or five times today and I love it. Chalk it up.

If I can hold it together and work steady as it was claimed, I can basically fulfill all of my monetary obligations by working five to six days of the month. God, I hope this works correctly and there isn't an overflow of substitutes and the work isn't soul-killing. Maybe my degree was worth this.

G and I laid on the couch most of the day while I watched the DS and she cat napped. Our great effort was buffalo wings, as it's Sunday and I've become determined to make it a tradition. A fantastic day. My father killed three deer with relative ease on the weekend excursion that defines his calendar year. I am so happy for him.

There's video of Tyler, Daniel, and I hashing out that Muppets Christmas song and the fruit of that practice has green-lighted (greenlit?) the "Christmas Special." It will be done. I'm so excited. Being other places with TVs grants me opportunities to see Christmas commercials and I love them so much. I absolutely adore Christmas advertising. Sell me anything. Just put Santa in it. Any time of the year. I am an AMERICAN.

I haven't done this any justice. There was an incredible amount to tell. I'm feeling very hopeful on every front.

AM

It's three in the morning. That's the usual. Watching the television of choice. A recent development sees a new friend sending me bootleg DVDs of the soap-opera saga, Dark Shadows, a show that defines what I see as perfect camera work. Tonight, I met new people at Halloween social gatherings with Tyler. It was neat to be referred to as "the singer" by a bunch of people I've never met before. It did feel neat, especially in an American city joint. The night was a success in regard to my ability to handle meeting people. I had to pour the young sir into a cab and play, "My name is William and I know where we are going in the city of Chicago." It was a hoot.

Around a half-hour ago, there was a woman shouting bloody murder on her cell phone outside and a floor down. The man on the other end of that phone received some real classics. Pounding on the wall, her mouth over the speaker and shrieking, and some sort of southern drawl. Other highlights coming and going:

1. Prep to record next weekend! All week preppy.

2. Buffalo Wild Wings Sunday. Self-imposed.

3. Detroit Techno.

4. Finishing The Wire for the second time. My plan is to do the whole five seasons once a year.

5. My only costume was a can of Skippy. I said I was George Washington Carver. Halloween: another holiday perverted by alcohol. Next up, Easter Crown (Royal) of thorns. I miss the minor innocence of scaring people and not worrying about them throwing up on me.

Halfway!

I suppose it's the equivalent of what the John Belushi enthusiasts call a "speedball", but my late night has been made weird with the combination of watching Jim Henson's memorial service on Youtube mixed with repeated-repeated-repeated listenings of Future of the Left's "Arming Eritrea." My massive egocentrism kicks in and I try to imagine how I would handle a loved-one biting it and I would have to be playing the drums and playing that song and have read The Primal Scream. So, I spend my time imagining trying to overcome a friend's death by playing drums to Future of the Left. JUUUdas.

This is great real time action here at 1:33 am. After keeping a guy on the line at Springfield today when he tried to lay me down and giving him the rundown on just how many television series his department has caused me to watch during the 8-4 hours, he bullied my application through and I am now officially an Illinois teacher. I feel, at this moment, fantastic. Fantastic. I can MAKE MONEY.

Something to destroy you:

I'm doing this immediately while I'm still in a state of bliss and admiration. The past hour has been one of the greatest solitary experiences in recent memory for a couple of small reasons all playing right.

1. The purchase of Fireside Reflections, a $2 dvd on the checkout counter at Wallgreen's that magically transforms your giant ass television that your parents gave you and nearly died lugging up four flights of stairs into a ROARING FIREPLACE. You genuinely think there's heat coming from the thing.

2. The lights turned off so only FIRE FLICKERING bouncing off the walls. YOU FEEL HEAT.

3. Acoustic guitar noodling the litany of new material and, finally, just vamping on E-Major to F# and remembering with the greatest of detail the first time I went back home for Christmas vacation, 2005. My God the goddamn heartbreak. Kerri H., a girl I had literally been eying since the first psychology class, had drunkenly spent the night fully-clothed in my arms, on my adopted bed at Egan's. I had sat with her as she got wasted in a trailer. We had embraced and talked of many things. Then to Egan's for her pass out. I didn't see anything coming except waking up embraced and promises of full-scale relationships. She woke up and made me take her to her car immediately. She apologized for her behavior and promised she would call me later. Egan had recently found the song "New Day" by Ian Moore and it had cut a hole in me at massively high volumes on 32-repeated blastings while Egan was out one night and I was staying at his house. 32. Anyway, it was in my car. I had dropped her at hers. And I had to drive home for the loneliest Christmas vacation of my entire life. This goddamn memory of just before I turned on to I-29, screaming that damn song as loud as I could and pounding the steering wheel. It's one of the best memories I have. One of the best memories in the whole world. Genuine, god-awful heartbreak. What doesn't matter is I later wound up on the receiving end, on the power on my side, making her pay because I could. But that shit doesn't matter. The hurt that that memory brings back. The pure honesty.

That was repeating along with E major to F# major. Over and over.

Then I turned on the Julian record. And I danced my ass off as quietly as I could. The other two are asleep right now. I danced all over this apartment. I shuffled. I pop and locked. I air-humped. It was unbelievable. Then I had a cigarette. Then I realized I needed to remember this. This memory. ALL WE HAVE ARE THESE THINGS. THEN WE DIE. Make them hard. Make them last. 45-minutes of sheer feel.

Thanks

I have tried to provide myself with well-linked memories when a guy I admire releases something. January of 2009 was driving with Winne to Sioux Falls at 8:30 in the morning to pick up First Impressions of Earth. There was some cold month with Codymonster spent at the overlook listening to In Rainbows for the first time. The big ass bed in my folk's basement this year hearing The Argument eight years after the fact. Etc. Etc. Etc. Not that many, actually. I don't have that many. But I've concerned myself with making more.

So I took the leaked Julian Casablancas record and put it through my Saturn's bad ass speakers (I mean this, I don't know why, but they rule), and drove around Logan Square, Chicago. Stopped for Dunkin Donuts. Parked in a parking lot under the train. Did some big squares. The record:

Rough out of the way. Two back to back calls to countryesque-with-drum-machine that I fear will never grow on me. Eeks. Some fucking brilliant choruses, though. I'm proud of a man who has no idea who I am. I feel good for him. Such an odd feeling. It's so weird, but this record is the first hint of anything viscerally meaningful that I can remember in ever. That's hilarious considering haters can call the thing a calculated attempt to latch onto the electropop thing and the most heartless release from one of the coldest bands in rock and roll. But it physically pains me to hear some of the changes (chords I mean) and my favorite man's voice best as it ever was. I imagine this stems from The Strokes being the first real band that has meant anything to me, and one of the few (sorry Blink 182) that I didn't outgrow. There was something so wonderfully about cheering the record on. Knowing it can do better, begging for it to be as perfect as say it should be. This is how people used to feel about records all the time. Their pride, their feelings, and friendships were heavily invested in a record. Not used as style points or talking points or credibility points. It scares me that it's only one band/guy that sort of owns my heart, but maybe that's how it's supposed to me. This reads so incredibly emo, but my god what I've been longing for in sincerity has been given to me by a half-cocked electropop record by the guy from my favorite band that may never make another record. I'm personally invested in the band. When they do well, I feel happy for them which is far more than I can claim for most anybody I know save the iron circle of facial hair and generally older thans. I felt real gut-aching for the first time in a very long time. I firmly and seriously blame it on the blog bullshit. Polluting sincerity with irony in a way that doesn't make light of anything we didn't already know. This record may be great, it's certainly good, but I don't give a shit because it's reminded me of a heart.

The Late Stages

A series of declarative statements because I'd like to get to the meat of it and be done with it:

-No quality thinking happens after 11 pm.

-The Wire has become my day-friend and I just finished Season 3 again. I feel like we hang out during the day. Somewhere I can turn. A real feeler. A direct result of

-Continuing unemployment has now convinced me to apply for jobs I could have gotten without a college degree (nanny) while I continue to wait on the bureaucratic machine.

-G 'n me saw Inglourious Basterds (my fourth, her third) at the cheapies tonight. Time well spent.

-Monday/Wednesday practice and a meet on Tuesday with a possible fifth. Doubtful.

-Joey lending me Straight Men with the pitch of the protagonist reminding him of me started as endearing, and now leads to concern. I do think about being 50 a lot. Being an asshole isn't nearly as dirt off your shoulder-rubbin' later in the game. Angry adults just seem like strike-outs. Scary juice.

-I've been playing my other guitar quite a bit the past week. The thing that has spent more time in the shop than on stage because of the only real claim to "artistic bullshit" I can cop; I whipped it hard the first time I broke a string the first show after I got it and downright piledrived (piledrove) the thing the second time it went out of tune and it came apart. We'll see how she sounds at practice tomorrow.

-I see that too many blogs close together just sort of reiterate and otherwise uninterestize the fact that my life is wholly uninteresting at the moment. Take my words like my accomplishments. Made up.

Press on. "Full Court Press" was the term given to an unseen man with money taking a woman out on a lavish date by a man with a ponytail and bears jersey at Buffalo Wild Wings today. He could see that the Rough City resident he was speaking to understood that (whispered close to her ear but I heard the words) a mature woman such as her could see through the smoke 'n mirrors. See through the "Full Court Press" (I swear to Christ he said the words so many times I started to believe it). His contention: real women don't like to be treated with manners or taken out for fancy dinner. They prefer ponytails and Bears jerseys and Honey Barbecued kisses on the smoking patio. He said this as her Vikings got shitcanned by Pittsburgh in the late stages. And you know what she did? Guess what she did. She agreed with him.

Live from Lowered Ears

I could do fine listening to Wilco's "I'm Always in Love" for the next three hours. What's an accomplished Friday feel like when you're unemployed? Taking out the trash, speaking to your brother on the phone, finding a cheap haircut factory where they don't use scissors like you're the second most famous European soccer player.

Yesterday I found a capo in the van and promptly wrote the most bar-rocking of tunes since "99." Using the word "promptly" there suggests a smug "BECAUSE I'M A GENIUS AND IT JUST HAPPENS," but we all know that's bullshit and probably not what I mean. Come to think of it, this week has run together so much that I'm not sure if it was yesterday or the day before. What I do know is that I've half-written three songs this week and that's sort of a personal best. I also accidentally wrote a David Bazan tune that sent Joey on a wild goose chase, as I thought it might be a Sunset Rubdown song. How's that for an explanation? If we ever speak in person, and you're feeling brave, allow me to do a song-by-song comparison of who I'm ripping off. All the way back to the first Paddywhack record with a song I can't remember the title to that was supposed to be "Cut Your Ribbon" by Sparta. The influences have gotten "better", but the game stays the same. Gotta serve somebody.

Have you ever watched the "Happiness is Slavery" video from Nine Inch Nails? If somehow you can find it, I would advise watching it with a strong dose of courage and wikipedia entry for the video.

Realistically, I think Joey, Eddy, Stien, JamesIII, Egan, and occasionally Gem are my only readers, which makes a great deal of "Have you heard/seen/smelled/eaten" moot as you bastards (that label obviously excluding the honor and majesty of Mother Gem) are pretty much responsible for anything good in my life.

It's been dreary all week. Dreary Chicago is really pretty bad ass. I still do not believe I live here. Then I pay $5.50 for a quart of oil and I believe it. Having haircut lady mention that she wants to move to a "real" city like New York was oddly reassuring and rather endearing to me on behalf of this city. Having Danny mention an hour later that New York is a place he would love to live if he could afford it because "there's so much going on" was probably the most confusing thing I've ever heard from a guy who has yet to do the following in this city: 1) ride the train 2) see a show 3) see a movie 4) go downtown 5) leave the place for something other than groceries or practice.

Monster said he was coming on tour for sure last night. I need it in writing, but boy did it make me smiles.

Birthday Short List

On the year of the second birthday I have stopped looking forward to because it just means I'm getting older now, I have compiled my short list:

1. Rent for five years

2. The Kickback merchandise

3. A nano-sized Electro Harmonix Holy Grail reverb pedal

4. A Wurlitzer piano (or possibly the Fender Rhodes Lancey Pants may be selling to me and the brother)

5. A better touring vehicle

6. No intestinal ulcers

7. A smaller nose

8. I've been wearing the same clothes since senior year of high school. Mom just doesn't take me school shopping anymore. What I'm saying is some pants and shirts would be really productive.

9. Mt. Dew Code Red

10. A farm outside Vermillion that isn't condemned

11. A legitimate record deal with distribution

12. My fucking teaching certificate already

13. An Epiphone Sheraton II. Sunburst.

14. Facial hair

15. Actual Muppets puppets

16. Vermillion Summer 2005 (friends included)


Most of things just make me sad because "Actual Muppets Puppets" used to be the most reasonable request on my birthday list. Now the idea of rent-free living and rightfully receiving the credentials which the state owes me to do a job that is grossly understaffed and underqualified and will probably get me killed is what fills my fantasies. Still, some respectable musicianship could take care of three or four of these, with great help and luck. As the years progress, I will make an effort to ask for more ridiculous but joy-bringing presents which will hopefully offset the march of the years.

Smile up. There are many things to be thankful for. Like not asking for food for my birthday. Or a cure for syphilis.

With My Friends

Interview with Julian Casablancas

http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2009/oct/04/julian-casablancas-strokes-interview

So, I like some Wilco now. Touch and go. But boy, do I respect them.

My mind is only occupied with music, my heart with hatred of unemployment, and a hand-washing of pretty much all my Facebook-ing not related to band stuff. All three are connected, I imagine. We spend our weekend with Mad Men. In the dumps, homesick, and feeling little but contempt for my contemporaries. Low side of things, the karma of D-days always finds me in the end.

"Poor Places" it is.

E-Bay Winner

I never claimed to like or even appreciate Wilco. Tyler, the new guitarist, is pushy and convinced me to watch the I am trying to break your heart documentary, so now I feel, at the very least, respectful towards the guys. Maybe give YHF its yearly spin and see if context helps anything at all. That's not the issue here. The issue here is that it's restarted the crazy train at some sort of top speed. I just sat down to work on some unfinished songs and post-documentary inclinations of "song should go this direction" are clearly not what pre-documentary ideas had in mind. I feel like I could kick out about five songs tonight, but I've learned it's almost always best to let the ideas simmer for a bit or else I write three Wilco songs, and I don't even like Wilco. This doesn't seem like a pressing matter or big deal, but the BIG MUSICAL MOOD SWINGS are what take us from slummin' to three-part Spanish guitar lead-in in only two moves. The latter was played for a show or two, put on the back burner more than a year ago, and the better parts of it are now seeming like a good idea again. ANYWAY. My, I believe, well-deserved good feelings (as short as they ever last) about the quality of the new music we're recording are thrown in harm's way when the BMMS kicks up. And for once, I'd like to just let it back off for at least a month. The ideas about how things need to get recorded are right and I'm confident and absolutely cannot let new crazy mind get things confused. An EP does not work like a record and we don't need 18-minutes of music all stuck together with reverse-tape loops and choir overdubs and anything else the documentary suggested as a spectacular idea. Four songs of just us. Four songs of music. Not a record. Settle. This is merely for my rereading and repeating.

Sick All Week Highlights:

-Grizzly Bear concert. Those most fantastic musical skill I have seen put to use in a constructive and crowd-pleasing way. The finest harmonies in the world. I felt on the wrong end of hell but will be eternally grateful I was at the show. Ridiculously good. I got bored 3/4 of the way through as always, but it was truly remarkable.

-Billy O. stayed over last night. Stayed up late trading stories and spent today making plans for some sort of music thing. Laughed hard a lot and coughed hard. Lungs not functionally incredibly well. He gave me his solo-ish record that's coming out soon and after talking to him for quite a while, this is the saddest thing I've heard in a long time.

-Almost successfully purchased purple pants today while on a mission with G; however, they were made for Latina women and so the butt in the pants was unusually large and was literally hanging over itself. Such is life.

-The Fundable web site has been permanently closed down due to infighting and amusing anecdotes posted on the site. Had I not accidentally ended the main fundraiser last week, we would not be getting any of the donations. Quite the stomach churning evening.

-Me and the G sat down around six and polished off eight episodes of Season 3 of the 30-Rock, stopping only to get a McFlurry which was advertised in two separate episodes. My girl knows how to trooper.

-Pretty kickin' WL/bl version of the summertime song worked out with Daniel. Tyler and I got the three new songs we're recording demoed for Daniel and Poo to listen to while they're out. That studio time is booked with the guy that does the Bonnie Prince-whatever records and some Modest Mouse engineering. He's good. Don't care for the artists. We're doing a live radio sessions for Radio One in Chicago in November which I'm really looking forward to.

-The Wavves/Black Lips AKA "Either way, I win" brawl. Hysterical.

-Running down the list of potential covers with the guys, one that includes me singing in Italian and is probably the front-runner.

-And this

Groundswell and Pride

My personal taste is not at all conducive with the direction Muse has decided to go in. However, that can be countered with a number of things, the most ringing example being a text message in my sent folder that reads "I mean it when I say if it comes between a song I write being in the Top 10 or a guest spot with Muppets, I will choose Muppets every time." It wasn't met as a silly musing, but a direct order to the aspiring higher-up to know who he should be trying to contact.

My newest scheme is what I hope to be the combination of the Beatles "All You Need is Love" live broadcast, the Muppet Christmas special from 1987, and the reworking of a John Denver tune. For Christmas I hope. I'm so excited.

I'm hoping some branches can be extended to Foreign Born. I would absolutely love to tour with that band. Watching them every night would be a delight. Their record is still my top of this year.

Still no work which is still attempting to break me. I start spewing hate at the Illinois Board of Education tomorrow in hopes of expediting the paper work god-awful joke of an organization. A pox on their houses.

A great credit to G for not getting unnerved at my Muppet-awkward weekend spent reworking songs on the piano and watching Christmas specials in September. There is a huge part of me indebted to puppets. I don't have a problem with that at all. She claims to find it endearing, which is really a relief. No one likes to have the "I promise this isn't a sexual thing, I just like puppets" conversation more than once.

This week time will be spent working out arrangements with Tyler and another musician. Harassing phone calls as previously mentioned to bureaucracy town. My cousin, Paige, has wound up in a book because she's a bad ass (the reason more or less). A sprinkling from:

"Fitzgerald's vivacious smile and gracious manner fools no one. She has an icy brilliance, a knife's edge of focused relentlessness that can't be passed off as the usual prosecutorial vigor. She is considered highly opinionated by many on the prosecution's side and downright mean by others. Some in law enforcement suspect her of being antipolice, perhaps because she has prosecuted several Mississippi cops for civil rights violations. But U.S. Attorney Dunn Lampton had watched her nail Avants in 2003, and he wanted her to help do the same to Seale."

I love it.

Holding pattern. Etc. Not losing it and not clawing at the doors.

King of Kong

Steve Wiebe replied to my Facebook message. He's down for a musical collaboration. We're now Facebook friends. CLOUD 9.

Starting at 11 last night, I watched the entire Beatles Anthology. All eight episodes at an hour and whatever minutes apiece. I'm thoroughly depressed.

1. My third viewing of Inglourious was honestly better than the first two. This could have had something to do with the empty theater (other than a popcorn mauling G and occasional security guard wanting to catch the better parts of the thing), the comfy chairs, or the fact that the movie kicks perpetually rewarding ass. The lip curl of shooter-that's-not-Donnie at the end is my favorite part. Looking like Tony Montana but even more badass. Goose bumps about 30 times during the thing.

2. G spent most of today working at home on iMovie putting together a propaganda piece for one of the patriotic/Catholic/musicians her company represents. As the afternoon progressed and her frustration with the endeavor (and a song which squeezes "National Guard" into a single un-rhyming line) peaked, I enjoyed the give and take of a woman screaming obscenities of Mary and the little baby while trying to create a video for an artist who slings Christ for a living. The video could just have easily been called "Nation's Pride."

3. Over the past couple of years, my humble bit has gotten my public speaking to the point of "Whoah, buddy. Slow down. It's okay. You're stammering." I realized this today. In an attempt not to offend anyone I speak to, I've become a stuttering fucking idiot. There are people who think my most consistent personal trait is a stutter and toe-gazing show. I am changing this tomorrow.

4. "Two Weeks" by Grizzly Bear is still the shit. We see them in a couple weeks with Beach House opening. And MSTRKRFT. And Dan Deacon maybe. And Phoenix if I decide to lose big money but have it totally be worth it.

5. Bringing the harpsichord for a song.

6. Perturbed that any versions of "Life on Mars" I find on Youtube have Bowie taking the low melody.

7. I have also proved unable to relinquish virtually any control of band shit that isn't booking shows. G says that is good. All right.

8. I will now watch Miller's Crossing and go to bed.

Curse Your Branches

1. I have not stopped listening to David Bazan's Curse Your Branches or the Beatles. This is my kick and it is wonderful. The Beatles kick comes with the added baggage of every song having it's own Wikipedia entry and my tendency to immerse myself completely in what I enjoy. So I'm working on the walking encyclopedia thing. The "Why break up?" article in Rolling Stone shockingly good. I haven't read anything that interesting in the rag since the James Brown issue a few years ago.

2. I had a physical for teacher stuff. 8 am. I beat the doctor there by almost 20-minutes. During the abdominal exam and minutes before the hernia check, she informed me that I had very attractive abs. WHAT? Yes. A female (albeit old) doctor preparing to grab my junk informed me that she found my abs attractive. I thought that was the end of the story and I had the moral high ground. However, the clinic only being open until 12 today and my need to return for the results of my TB exam was made extra-ordinary upon my waking at 11:47 am this morning. After calling and reaching the same doctor who had performed the procedure, she remembered me and had no problem waiting past closing time for me to come and get my results. I have no problems in the world.

3. We saw the Hood Internet last night at the Metro for free. After seeing a hyped DJ do their thing with the instruments I assumed he would be using, I now believe Daniel and I can do it better, faster, stronger. No heart was involved. Interjecting some guttural love onto the heart-hardened dance floor can be done. Will be done.

4. The show at the Bottom Lounge was fantastic. A very good start for us. Almost more facinating was the Rolling Stone from 2003 with the second-album-ready Strokes on the cover that was sitting among others in the green room. I could not believe how easily it was to make fun of the magazine. Seemingly archaic cultural/musical movements from only six years ago. Then I saw the future. Every five years I look back and wonder what the hell was I was thinking. I do this about every week, but still. It wasn't encouraging to have 50-pages of backup.

5. Tonight will be nothing.

Valuable Pieces of August

1. Poo told us that he was walking down 18th street in the middle of the night. From out of the shadows, he heard (for most of his walk), "Holla! GORDO!"

2. I purchased a Virgin Mary plug-in, electric glow-thing. It's fantastic. Even better, I bought it at the Discount Mega Mall which is two-times better than the Dirt Mall from Mallrats.

3. Patton Oswalt made another fine record. I listened to the last few bits lying in bed next to G, while she slept. I will never, ever forget trying not to wake her up with the rocking and gyrating of my body in hysterics. She didn't wake up, and for that I feel I deserve a prize.

4. Tonight is band pictures. The new band. The new guys. Also, the WL/bl tracks got reviewed positively from somebody English. It's been a hell of a day, thusfar.

LENNY

I'm watching Lenny and in Trainspotting terms, it's right where he loses it and it's gone forever. I try to explain this to people and it never seems to come across right. I expect a light bulb to go off. But they just nod. Because they don't want to believe it. Maybe Randy Newman beat it. Maybe he has beaten it. But he's an earth-mover and not your miller-runner and saw handler. It's late. I spent my evening setting up a wireless network in this here place. REDROOM is the network. There's a password though and some tree-circles you've got to get around. That burnt smell of engine oil. The Internet's a tricky place...and the drapes. Lenny's really biting it hard and it's probably the heroin or his pills. Difficult to watch. Dustin's doing a swell job. Mr. Hoffman with the nose and things I feel I can relate to.

First practice tonight with Tyler. It was fantastic. He's a musician as much as a guitar player. It was really very exciting to feel something click and only one practice in. Another counterpart, I think. I think. He understands. And a management situation that seems only to be positive. The promise of Notre Dame football games and story swapping. This feels like the beginning. When everything goes downhill and you forget who your friends are because you just want to be loved. We're nowhere, but I can sort of see where it all comes crashing down and that huge empty when nobody will return your phone call. That's not in a bad way, I mean. it's just amazing to at least see it down the rabbit hole. If it ever works out I can also see the end game. So I have to attempt to emotionally prepare for never making it or seeing it all leave when I'm not young or capable anymore. But that takes time and greatness of which I am not at all sure if I am capable. I need to write better songs. That's a start.

Lenny's dead now. Syringe and all. Poor fella.

Jesus that was harsh film.

The Dead Weather and their video is the utter bullshit of the summer. Good grief. Do less. Try less hard. Now you're getting somewhere.

More band news.

We have a legitimate manager now. He looks like Billy Zane. Law student from Notre Dame. Big ideas. There is nothing bad about any of this.

I rode the train and the bus and saw Wrigley Field today.

I JUST laid down 17 vocal tracks on a WHITELODGE/blacklodge song.

I'm getting ready to listen to the Radiohead song that leaked. Oh boy. OH BOY.

Lessons From Lolla

1. I don't like being "a fan." This is downright selfish and pretty cry-baby, but I don't like it. I just want to play. Play in front of people. Play for a few people. I want to be there getting to play all of those crazy whatnots and do-dads. I don't see myself going to another big fest like this for just that reason.

2. G is pretty much the best thing in the world. She will get vicious to get to the front of a crowd. She will employ tactics that would make Stalin blush. We sat through an entire set of Los-something-or-other (I hated it, whatever) before Arctic Monkeys so we could (hopefully) get to the front. It wasn't looking good until the lead singer decided it would be a good idea to run into the crowd, prompting everyone to rush to the left. Keep in mind, we were seven rows back. Everyone bum rushes left to get to lead singer of band I can't stand and there is a considerable gap opened up right in front of us. G grabs my arm and bolts. Elbows may have been employed. A couple of young girls who should have known better than to be in the front row of a music fest are probably now thinking they should have known better than to be in the front row of a music fest. People were moved by my woman. We grabbed the bars and did not let go. She is a trooper of state highway magnitude.

3. There is such a thing as "too fucking loud." Dan Deacon's set made me physically sick to my stomach. This happened to Danny at the Deathklok show. I liked Deacon. It wasn't the epiphany I was hoping for. But it was pretty entertaining. But having to leave during the last 1/4 of the set was rough.

4. I still don't understand the concept of dance music. "Perry's" tent was a 24-7 dance party that was packed the entire time with people I would never hang out with. We went to MSTRKRFT in hopes of what I thought would be a bad-ass musician take on sorta-dance music that wound up being dance music indistinguishable from the others. G enjoys all types of dance-y stuff, but I think it's the lack of heart that I can't wrap myself around. I've decided to look into this issue and maybe make good dance music.

5. There are still lots of shitty bands, even at Lolla-levels.

On this day

As formally as these things can be announced before they're formally announced, 1-on-1 rehearsal with Tyler went fantastic. So much a better fit in every possible way. He should be full-fledged by next month. BOOMDADDY.

No sleep at the moment. Too much head buzzing. Howard Hughes is the person I look up to most at these times. Surrounded by fucking mediocrity. Don't let it start tripping things up. Why is Beyonce's "Halo" the only thing I'm interested in listening to this week? I've been back to 15 years-old watching live Letterman performances of bands and pretending it's me. Getting motivated and discontent. Huge. I think I finally found the guitar player. Tyler. Christ please let this be it so we can start rehearsing material that isn't years old. WL/bl is up and running, obviously. D and I worked on stuff tonight. Four hours go by with no real feel for time and then G tells you that you look like shit. What a payoff. I just ate the first sushi of my live 10-minutes ago. It was leftover and had potsticker sauce and I devoured it. It's sitting well. What an awkward first time. Goes with the others. Feeling the "run" feeling, but am now contractually obligated to fulfill my role as an adult. We need to be doing more. Not enough is being done. More things need to happen. This life is being wasted. Hughes had more pies than fingers. No urge to go to Lolla. No urge to see any show ever. Just need to make something legitimate. Outlive my dumb ass. TKB is going to be bigger. Less distortion. And bigger. I need to make more. Sincere. Christ almighty. This isn't helping. The Tyson and Ali documentaries on rotating repeat. Built bad intentionally. Oh those vibes here and now.

I live in Chicago now.

Our place is starting to look like home. G is at a festival with a friend. I am putting things away. Cranking music. Meeting our neighbors who are cool, I think. This may be more useful now that I won't see you every week and explain what happened in the past. I'm heavily concerned with finding a gig. Band stuff will fall where it needs. Now I'm self-supporting. Internet man tomorrow. We're stealing Internet until then. No television. It's in the van. No furniture. It's coming with her parents. But computer music. And clean living space. High ceilings. Freaked out last night. But that was last night. I think I can do this with a little class. Danny had to stay back a couple days because of recording computer issues. He's coming tomorrow. Harder for him with nobody here, I'm sure. That being said, I'm pretty excited to finally hang this Warriors poster. The movie, not the team that Chris Mullen used to play for. I wouldn't mind a poster of him. This wasn't interesting. But there you go.

My heart has skipped 62 beats.

Additional Production by Mike Mogis? He walked in and out of Room B while we were recording at Saddle Creek. The place that made our record sound like tinny shit. I digress. I AM SO EXCITED.

Some days I'm in love with Wikipedia

The Eels official website claims that Everett responded to a request for a quote for the dust jacket to Kurt Cobain's posthumously published diaries with: "Please don't do this to me after I kill myself."

HOVE

This all while listening to the Jaydiohead record. One song in. I love it.

The packing situation has become a reality. The packing situation has woken me up in the night. While I was buying a tote from the lady at the hardware store, she commented that the Beresford 125th party had shown her time and time again why she was glad she would never live in a city. I agreed with her. She asked what I was up to. I told her it was lunchtime soon.

The moral of Friday is that every time I drive someone else's car, I get a speeding ticket. Those who have driven with me probably find that hilarious, as I haven't driven over 72 mph in my own car in years. My problem, it seems, is that I enjoy 68 mph whether the speed limit be 75 or 45.

I spent yesterday with Carlos and company working on a video idea I had while talking to Sides on the phone. The possibility of its offensiveness was honestly never a thought in my head and was only raised later by Carlos, after we had finished. His contention was that it didn't matter how offensive it was, he stood behind it. I didn't think of it as offensive, and most of my problems stem from me not thinking enough or too much. Maybe we can get the National Council of Women to file a lawsuit or give us an award. Probably neither.

This Jaydiohead record is bad ass.

Last week was the down cycle of the sanity bargain. Every couple of months fear and loathing takes complete hold. Feeling better. Finished the large David Simon book. Now Pynchon. Brickhouse was a blast and will hopefully make a good record. We'll stay a band like a Blur project.

Moving time horizon time.

Masa

I can't explain what it is I love about blackface. The ridiculousness. The obscenity. The retardation of the senses. Something unbelievable.

I won a $35 gift certificate to the Compton swap meet.

Today I enjoyed Parliament's Mothership Connection while I mowed the lawn. I enjoyed the bass lines, particularly. Not the irony.

I spent time reading about West Coast G-Funk and then enjoyed The Chronic, especially the high-end synth parts that were done on a Moog. I did this while enjoying an iced tea and in between episodes of Arrested Development. I did not enjoy the irony.

I searched for tutoring jobs in the city of Chicago while listening to Boots Riley sing about bringing down the system. I like how he talks. Not the irony of being white.

It was an awesome day. Some mowing, some vacuuming, some proper progress on the moving front. I'm getting a little more excited than terrified. The G is absolutely necessary to this process. Everybody should have one. Good lord I don't know how I would be doing this (I probably wouldn't be doing this, come to think of it) if it weren't for her.

To finish a thought, it's easy to throw on an animal outfit, lay down a Michael Jackson groove, throw on a strobe light, and be heralded for your post-modern and "genre-bending" take on contemporary music. Too easy. Too many kids dressed like poor people. Really poor people. Too many Brian Jonestown Massacre-isms or animalisms. Trying to negate criticism through ironic detachment. I will do what I can to appeal to the post-postmodernists. Living through, at least, attempting some honesty. Heavy-handed, maybe. But trying to out-ironisize the next man is impossible, especially when you're not sure if they're trying or just took too much E. I think I could be better at this.

Also: I've never listened to Nick Cave before. I've got his first four records now as well as Dig!...(Thanks Jim). All ya'll have talked this boy up. I hope he pulls it off David Simon-style.

I looked at my typewriter earlier. Not much time these past months. Feeling it again. Got to have more than some bullshit melodies. Be a man about town and whatnot. Howard Hughes is my new marble man.

A Year on the Killing Streets

Beresford's 125th centennial is upon us this weekend. God help us all. There is food to be had at virtually every intersection of commerce and dialog in this place. People I was not brokenhearted to never see again will be seen again. A street dance (not the one held this past weekend, mind you. That was the street dance held by a private citizen in protest of not getting to put on the centennial street dance) will rear its drunken two-stepped head. More money was spent on the annual fireworks display, and I will routinely be confused as the current saxophone player for "The Fireflies." My ideologically opposed uncles will come together and, under the influence of moderately-priced red wine, tussle in a confused and complicated verbal wrestling match that is stopped only by the sister in the middle: my disgraced and disgusted mother.

I haven't had to drive to Sioux Falls yet this week, the first in many multiples of weeks. I will tomorrow, however. The bags under my eyes are a little lower after two consecutive days of bed before 2. Jordan is taking his ridiculous time with the record...yet another reason why I wish we could have done all of it ourselves. Danny and I were able to do roughly 45% of the thing on our own, which I am proud of. Our duo thing will have not been marred by any foreign hands, and that is why I am looking most forward to it. Five songs seems like such a small amount for the god-awful days and hours that go into these EPs. All of this fucking time. For a few songs. Someday we'll be able to do a real record and then I will be able to reflect on the even huger amounts of time spent on relatively the same amount of songs. After a few summers where the music took a break, I at least feel like things are being accomplished. That being said:

I cannot begin to express my humiliation, frustration, and endless fatigue with trying to work the promotion end of this fucking band. Here is something I care about: please love it. I'm a whore, used-car salesman, and delusional pitchman all rolled up into one sad package. Virtually getting nowhere all the time. But keep it moving. Make sure everything's up to date. Make sure people care or I think they care. Update...update...update. What I would give for somebody to take over this shit, somebody that I could get mad at for not doing it the right way. Wah, wah. I would like to focus on writing a song.

Before you work on a song:

-Do we have money to get CDs pressed?
-How is Egan doing on artwork? Oh shit, did I forget to send him ____? Probably.
-How do we get anyone to care about this?
-I want to release this on cassette. Who can do this? How much is this? Is this worth it?
-How do I get a vinyl pressing plant to bump up this order?
-Why am I worrying about these things when we don't have any money?
-Does anyone see this band as a growing thing and not some shitty rock band?
-NO ONE DOES, DO THEY? I hate my life and want to die.
-Someone must. Do only idiots like our music? My friends humor me too much. Don't they? I know my friends aren't idiots. They would hate my band if I weren't in it. Do idiots only like my band? They're just supportive.
-We need an emblem? Who can make an emblem? We don't have money to get anyone to work up an emblem, do we?
-What does this cover art say about me as a person? What the hell am I worrying about this for? Who the fuck is going to buy this? Nobody, because it's garbage and probably won't ever get released because Jordan takes too long and ____ shouldn't even be on the record because we didn't have enough time.
- NO, ____ should totally be on the record.
-What's it matter, you haven't listened to any of your music anyway. Maybe you should stop worrying since you don't listen to it anyway. What's that say about your music?
-How do we get people in ____ to care? Nobody cares about it because music is free and 100000 new bands come out with records everyday. We've got fans here because there are three bands.
-How do we pay for ____?
-We need videos. And live shit. And could we ever cover "Like a Rolling Stone" without it being ridiculous? Why NOT?
-What the fuck is Monster doing? Is he moving? He better be moving? We need to practice with _____ who is trying to learn songs we've been play for a year now and -I'm so tired of playing these songs I want to shoot myself three times.
-I want to be like Radiohead. No, the Replacements. No, Radiohead. No, Jeff Buckley. No, Radiohead. No, Randy Newman.
-Who in their right minds would use that font? Is THAT what they think when they think of us? THAT FONT?
-I need to learn more chords.
-I need to take piano lessons.
-I need to understand music better.
-I need to understand Danny's recording program better.
-If Danny dies of lung cancer, I'm not going to be able to make music anymore.
-Danny should stop smoking.
-Will anybody remember this?
-What the fuck am I doing?
-What do people not doing this think about?
-I've become a one trick pony.
-What the fuck am I doing?

Okay, let's work on a song.

Burning ?uestions

1. Do I have any reason to believe that Windows Media Player somehow sounds better through headphones than iTunes? Because it's what I believe at the moment. iTunes/iPods have always bummed me out due to their "limited" IE nonexistent EQ function. The presets are pretty poor. But I'm talking straight playback without tweaking. For some reason my ears roll with Bill Gates. Heart with the fruit.

Observations from the back of a Speech 101 class

-Chubby Native American in a Venom-era Spiderman shirt. I would pay money to see you in the suit.

-Self-righteous biology major speaking like a confident young woman but is obviously terrified of men. Those are spectacular Chinese characters tattooed on your back. I bet they mean something meaningful.

-Oh girl giving a talk about alcoholism. This issue is obviously a bit too close to home. WAY TOO CLOSE TO HOME.

-Oh girl who started crying during her "get to know me" speech who was originally confident and attractive. Now you scare me.

-Oh Vermillion-bred girl giving a talk about locally-grown food. Could tag your hometown from Beresford. That's 30 miles away. Animal Collective is not your favorite band even though you said they are.

-Way to walk in late, hat guy. You're one of my students so during the break I get to give you the "I realize I'm white and you hate me, but if you're late again we're going to have problems" speech. Always goes well.

-Oh non-trad who gave an awesome speech and sort of embarrassed everyone else. I hope you do it again next time. And you did it without talking about your kids. Non-trad points.

-I am tired and rudely typing between speeches. I was here four years ago and sillier than the rest I'm sure. Oh 18 year-old Billy. Why don't you make it to class sometime and not bomb written test and spend the rest of your semester having to wrack up ridiculous speaking points to make up for that 'D' on the test because you were too busy with women from various exotic locations like Sioux City and Harrisburg. You creeped out your teacher a little bit too, buddy.

Followup: HEEEEEEEEY Tattoo girl who has three kids and is my age. That's a mighty fine speech about the OK City Bombing! Hey other girl, there's a concentration camp talk. It's so cold in here.

Here's to Hoping

Bet's on. Argus called and wanted info on the Warped Tour deal. Another short profile on the band. Appropriate names, ages, and current doings were listed. I was in the middle of grading speeches and mentioned that I had to get back to the Speech 101 class for which I was a TA. Also, I mentioned I was splitting all of my time between Vermillion and Beresford. And that I prefer rural living to city bullshit any day. The forecast according to the usual Sioux Falls treatment:

Yost is 31 years old, a professor at USD, and lives in a secluded area between Vermillion and Beresford. Cody defected to Russia for good and we're leaving town because my brother was in Janitor Bob.

$10 from me to me for every one of those that shows up in the paper.

120 Miles Per Day

Traveling ridiculous distances this week for practices de Billy Vice show on Thursday and awkward four-piece "give us your monies" show on Friday/Saturday? Still not sure. We're playing a current Top 40 hit on Thursday, so that will be fun.

1. I love Randy Newman
2. I love Jeff Buckley

I lived more than I wrote this week. That is a very good feeling.

There's that word again; "heavy". Why are things so heavy in the future? Is there a problem with the earth's gravitational pull?

At Danny's suggestion, I pulled Kayne West's "Big Brother" from a blog site, as well as "D.O.A." which, according to the G, is the new anti-auto-tune rant. It's Jay-Z, so it's probably awesome. A weekend influenced by Dan Deacon interviews, upper-body workout advice from another brother, and unparalleled excitement from the next band member (as well as 15-minutes of Grizzly Bear's "While You Wait for the Others" on "F-YES!" repeat in my car) made a weekend with little travel feel somewhat accomplished. Good places all over the board. Teacher paperwork nearing it's climax, but that's how these things work.

A word on this Grizzly Bear thing. They're called Jesus. The alpha and the omega of planet blogggara. Their record has presented quite a problem. What do you call a record with two of your favorite songs of the year while simeotaniously containing the most boring, forgettable collection of dinner music brought by Brooklyn this month? Getting from Track 2 to Track 10 (I think) is nearly unbearable. Not unbearable...a waste of time...which is probably worse. That being said (and because I need to be on the +), "Two Weeks" and the aforementioned "While You Wait for the Others" are two absolutely jaw-dropping works of musical perfection that make me happy in ways that very few songs ever have. I wish I had written them. To have had a hand in those harmonies would have been emotional payoff for years and years of life. My ears tell me that between Nigel Godrich and the bass player who produces GB's records, there is absolute perfection in recording sounds. I can listen to songs I despise purely for the enjoyment of the recording techniques. Flawless technique. There are probably flaws, but it audibly-reads "perfect" to me.

Big two weeks. In less than 14 days, we have to figure out a set for Joey's party, figure out a 3.5 piece set for the JB show, and put the Billy Vice & The Soma Wars show together for the 26th. The BV will probably be the most fun because I have ideas.

I'm forced to bring my grandmother to church on occasion. Mass more specifically. When Ma and Pa are busy. She's on the cusp of not being able to get around at all. All of the elderly jokers who highlighted my younger-younger years are now either dead or receive communion looking death-shades of their former selves. Communion is the worst time of mass because that's when you have to watch age have its way with all of those people who watched you grow up. All those thoughts of death and not wasting time and gross amounts of fear might have prompted a younger or older version of myself to turn back to the faith family. But I had the first warm feeling of "it's okay" on Saturday. They will die, I will die. I will leave behind everything I can and I hope they have had the opportunity to do the same. I will be old and hurting and maybe I can gain some Dr. Manhattan perspective on time by then. Every week I increasingly realize how ridiculous it is to wax philosophical on life at 22 or 30 or, well, I don't know when it seems legit.

The only thing to worry about is that the middle of June is too early for the EP release which sets the whole damn project behind. Early July I freaking hope.

Like Stonzie

I do not have the initial fortitude required to start Gravity's Rainbow. I keep remembering the scene in Wonder Boys where the girl who currently does Tom Cruise struggles for a compliment that winds up sounding like "there sure is a lot of explanation here." I read Underworld and got my fill of "encyclo-fiction" and finally made it through Catch-22 this year (I JUST SAW it as the Number 1 entry on "Most Read But Never Finished Novels"), and I don't feel the need to punish myself with a brick that will only hurt my wrists from trying to hold it up in the tub. In its place, I ordered I, Claudius, Pynchon's lesser brickThe Crying on Lot 49 (thanks Stien), and David Simon's Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets from which a great deal of The Wire was derived. I will read this summer. G'sR will not be it. This paragraph has more italics than sense.

G's signing a lease as I type. Logan Square aka "The Creative Types" according to her. I'd rather live around the Poles and avoid so many flip-flops and ironic bicycles, but we'll be all right. Dad seemed tickled to send me a news story about Chicago firing an a-ton of school officials. Ma and Pa are not going down without a fight.

As probably someone I speak to on a regular basis, I'm telling you that the JB show at Buck's is not going to be someplace you want to be. Unless you want to hear "Dominator"/ the oldie 3-piece stuff and our newer stuff sounding decidedly one guitar-less with pseudo-matching piano...sort of. The band needs money. Bad. Welcome to selling out your principles so you can buy new merch.

This job keeps me in Vermilion from 9-9. I sleep in my car behind the old law building from 12-2. I usually wake up hot. Practice tonight. Practice always.

You know who kicks ass consistently? Tim Commerford.

Sitting on G's floor pounding this out last weekend...God I love this man.

Irons

I'm either going to read a shit ton or nothing at all. Gravity's Rainbow is not starting well and I'm probably going to wind up preferring the Klaxons' album.

I am still unbelievably offended by Green Day covering "Like a Rolling Stone." I can't put it into words really. Yes I can. For three months, that song meant most of the world to me. I was learning the harmonica (it's coming back to the set also). The night before my major teacher test, I stayed up all night watching back-to-back Dylan documentaries and almost fell asleep during my essay exam. It was fantastic. GD makes an absolute mockery of the song. Them doing it at this point in their career is an automatic "douche-nozzle" rating. The compressed, bullshit "Cavallo Mix" makes it ten times worse than it already could have been (not negating the automatic "million times worse than the original" rating it got initially). I've already complained too much about this. If I ever meet Billie Joe Armstrong, I'm going to call him an asshole and tell him I'm better than he is. I bet that will do some damage.

There's a live video session deal that will be up at some point this summer depending on how long audio mixing takes Daniel and I. There are also EPs being made. This week we spend with Tom trying to make sure the JB gig will be okay and not a Triple Rock repeat. Next week we spend learning songs for the punk rock trio cover tribute band.

I took Avian Bird Flu having more Facebook friends than us as a direct personal affront to me as a person. I shouldn't be let on the book after 9 pm. I get weird after 9. Things fall apart.

Billy Vice and the Soma Wars (or possibly Citizen Albino Panther or WHITE LODGE/black lodge) will be opening for the Gbubz Release party at Nutty's North sometime at the end of the month. I'm not sure of the date or what we're playing.

I spent close to 10-minutes describing how much I hate Twitter, Facebook, and blogs with a U-Prof this morning. I meant it, too. That's the thing. Somebody's got to get me off of this. I want to live. Live, dammit.

Because sometimes the 5th replacement drummer completely makes a song.

30 Rock season II

I have pseudo-job interviews tomorrow. I'm not handling this well. Spanks is eyes deep in her book, 3o Rock should be playing but I haven't hit the correct button yet. I'm not going to be able to sleep incredibly well. I have to fly back tomorrow and start the summer job with the kids at the U. Before that I have to cold interview with Catholic principals who may or may not give a crap that I'm there. It's been the best weekend I've had in years. Both guit players may work and the odds run like this: a) the hair who has ish together, pretty eyes, has amazing gear, and knows the ropes like nobody's biz, b) the guy who's more like Monst and I would rather discuss American History with and parties like it's '99, c) both of them and attempt a three-guitar band. It's better to have choices. I spent $50 on pants and a tie because I had a freakout and decided my teacher clothes weren't teacher-enough. If it weren't for real life, life would be bitchin'. I don't have $50 to spend. People on Facebook are driving me crazy and my friends list keeps getting smaller. Everybody has an entirely-different reality on there. Looking at G's homepage made me realize this. I have Conservaboy's political rantings, this annoying high-school kid who reminds me of a less-aware version of me, and not enough from people who are smart enough not to be updating all day. This city is going to work fine on me. This week away from music was amazing. The Thermals' "When I died" is the song lately. Not words. Never about words. So good with no music to worry about. Seven hours later, it's back to that which keeps these times so monumental. What a drag. Baby wah-wah.

All the pieces matter

Started The Wire again yesterday. Why ruin a good thing. The song that plays at all the police wakes (The Pogue's "The Body of an American") was playing on my iPod when I had to pull over for a funeral caravan. Big tears, boy. Stien was the only one who understooooooood. Jim didn't count because I was texting him heartfelt shit last night and figured two days in a row would be retarded. Texting Jim while I drove home from V-town with one last Monster hang out. Drove home on Old 77 and hadn't ever felt so good. This summer anyway. Monst'll be back in one way or another. Nothing better than those midnight drives. Saturn makes the best stock stereo systems with computer malfunctions that I've ever had the pleasure of molesting. Danny and I pushed through a long day of recording, part with Jordan and part ourselves. Sampling bible vinyl into songs. The thing's getting heavy which should offset the couple quick bangers. Then another one. Then another one. Then summer's over. It's been nothing but my life lately and it's exhausting. I love it. I stopped lying back and watching Danny cover the holes. Push-ups and Quizno's on breaks. The record's got a lot more depth, sonically speaking. There's a lot going on on a couple tunes. Moog and theremin and Rhodes and E-bow and probably not as dense as it sounds. But it's coming. Transition period fo'show. Uh. Working on building up the ego with self to match. Egan has been owning any artwork projects lately. Somebody who can put up with a seventh attempt with direction like "Can you make it hurt more?" is somebody who should be paid more. Sticker attempt was pwned on first pitch. / We played the most embarrassing show of my past three years (the band, X-mas of course would not fall here, good lord) at the Triple Rock. My first real throw stuff, kick stuff, throw stuff, punch stuff tantrum. I was told it wasn't that amusing. Flying to Chicago on Thursday. G-Time riiiight. Meeting with guitar players who want to sign their life away and think Radiohead is a fantastic band. Visiting schools. Visiting apartments. Need a new harmonica. Badly. Next EP may be via WHITELODGE/blacklodge. WHITE LODGE black lodge. The open end of where the music is going lets me hate the songs less. Every recording is a disappointment of what could have sounded great. I wonder if you still think that when Nigel Godrich is doing it. Feelin' a little icy tonight.