2004.03.08 ears

  • I Can See The Mormon Temple From Here
  • I Will Kill You Fucker

In a recent meeting with the executive and development directors, we contemplated a constellation of about thirty pastel color-coded post-it notes I had left on the wall. What were they? What did they mean? What were our next steps?

We turned our eyes to this… lil cave of altamira and immediately, three-o’clock high style, I saw that somehow, three of my non-pastel color coded post-it notes had made it into the mix. They referred to things that I really had to do right away, but since they were adhered to this wall, and not the wall in my office, I had really very seriously not attended to those things, or had I?

Yes, I had, certainly, because I had subconsciously felt comfortable leaving them here.

No, I hadn’t, panic setting in, because there was nothing to remind me that it all needed to be done.

Then that convenient calm descended, just like it descended around my unmailed bill payment, discovered between the seat and the emergency brake of my friend’s car. This is overdue by several months, yet I have yet to receive any consequences, I thought, holding the coffee-smelling document and looking at the water from our postion on the flyover. This calls into question all kinds of things. Things like Time. Consequences. Efficiency of Systems.

Because of all this (I do believe that), the executive director went to these notes immediately and asked for a full report.

Suggestions for epitaphs.

2004.03.02 ears

  • if it weren’t for my brother falling off of a horse
  • mouse-clicks as bloody valentine is transferred to the 8600 and tracked
  • david thomas in my head singing “and every day will be a holiday” over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over


peter gabriel is inside a ball

so ends one of my favorite arguments with The Mysterious MZ.

In 1992, or 3, Peter Gabriel had just crested the top of his game, and was about to make that thrilling descent. Cast yer mind back, because we may have all been cresting the top of our game at that time. It’s hazy for me but I think we were all collecting musics of the world as they were presented to us by western artists (or, alternatively, we were watching the original incarnation of Korn in Bakersfield, or nearly throwing out the pj harvey album because it reminded us of patti smith [THANK JEEBUS I DINT]).


I was trying to have breakfast with MZ at The Diggery (which I cannot recommend) and he kept gettting up to use a payphone to call to get tickets to the Peter Gabriel show. It was clear he was doing this for our mutual benefit, but the transaction was bringing me down, the the way Laurie Anderson’s Hansel does to Gretel.

So I was a little needy, yes, what of it?

I feel as prepared today to fight with MZ about this as I was the day it occurred: a classic man-woman war of intention and expectation and assumption and desire. Go. Fill in the blanks.

He got tickets, exquisite fourth-row ones, for which I was dutifully charged my portion. Then the tour was cancelled due to someone important in the band overdosing, I mean, coming down with the flu. The rescheduled show date conflicted with one of our pilgrimages to New York, which I had not lairnt to tolerate as well as I do now. I was happy to cancel the New York trip.

But MZ insisted on giving up the tickets he had annoyed me with on so many many levels, and completing our lil visit to fucking hell.

The guy who bought the tickets went with us to see Peter Gabriel tonight, where I spent the whole evening thinking about

  1. what a difference a decade makes, and
  2. peter gabriel is dressed like a jedi, and
  3. he’s making someone pretend she’s rowing in a stationary boat, and
  4. it’s over for this man, solsbury hill or no solsbury hill
  5. the diehard fans did bring a tear to me one good eye, because
  6. there weren’t enough of them to open the upper decks in the arena

I think I’m going to learn to write like steve.

and i wished it would never end

For about two weeks now I’ve been considering not going to see a live music show in 2003. Instantaneously I realized that in so doing

  • I would turn into just about Everyone Else

except Everyone Else

  • actually goes to the show and talks through the whole fucking thing while I impotently glare at the backs of their heads

But you know what I mean.

I Said No to plenty of shows in 2002, about half of the one’s The Mysterious MZ attended (or was paid to attend). I regret it, now that I’m looking at the list. But had I gone, I would have doubled my aggravation.
Especially as I squished in the aisles for the Tenacious D instore at Amoeba. I hovered over my answer when MZ axed me to go, moving quickly, requiem for a dream stylee over the progression of from innocent pleasure-seeker to eviscerated vacant pawn of addiction. Instead of heroin, my Tenacious D Instore At Amoeba Drug is a cocktail of

  • bridge traffic
  • the inadequacy of parking in shan franshisky
  • the very real (and no less disturbing) fact that I identify with a band that yet again only appeals to men I really don’t want to get to know
  • the transaction, the transaction, the transaction, the transaction, the transaction

I don’t really know what I mean by the transaction except to say that we’re creating and consuming culture according to restricted norms. They rise, admittedly, from practicalities, but the whole stupid business chafes.

So if I stop going, and turn my ear to all the things that I’ve collected, documented, alphabetized, and not listened to since, or, in some cases, ever, I may sidestep that feeling of falling endlessly into a

Pool of Almost Understood What You Meant By That Sound But For All These Distractions Which Admit It You’re Suffering From Too

In other parts of my day, this desire to retreat is characterized by the wish to contract a terminal illness (one more terminal than life itself) and become a Buddhist nun.

But if I quit going to shows, my last show will be some New Year’s Eve unriveting thing (three years of the Melvins — why am I so sick?). According to the inside of the box, the game is over in a final flourish of excellence on someone’s part, not in the mixed drink line at the Arena during Phil & Friends…

…or with Les Claypool attempting to ejikate his listeners

…or with the random playablahblah of Anon Salon

…or with the scene-gone-badsters at the Cow Palace

The Car’s On Fire And There’s No One At The Wheel

As easily as my gear was sold to a prankster who had no intention of buying it, it was unsold. The procedure for Non-Paying Bidder is lengthy in order to distinguish Lazy Bidders Who Mean Well from Fuckhead Bidders Who Mean Ill. I actually think I’m in the former category, hence my reluctance to press the matter.

Because everything is about projection.

Yet, whoosh, my account was credited (in lieu of having my money refunded: paid in cash, refunded in monopoly money). Bidder suspended. The binary code is mightier than the sword.

Yet, I still like my Non-Paying Bidder. I think it’s fun to play tricks on people. The distinguishing feature… or is it the mitgating factor? is how the tricked people are selected.

And in the blink of an eye, someone has stepped up to take the place of the Non-Paying Bidder, and in this way, after accidentally knocking the curtain, I can report:

Things sold through a place that rhymes with FeeWay have a little momentum while they are listed. If the thing doesn’t sell, then the momentum truly swarms in the wake of the failed sale. This flurry of activity doesn’t take place in the place that rhymes with FeeWay, but in the Alley Just Outside the place that rhymes with FeeWay.
However, no one in either place wants to pay a fair price for quality goods. They are so many people on your lawn offering you a quarter, regardless of the size and function of the object.

So I miss Non-Paying Bidder, who at least had a sense of humor and so generously accepted my reserve.

It was fun while it lasted.

We love show biz. And if you don’t love show biz, we will destroy you.

Waiting for the murder ballad show to start, I started passing out fake blood capsules so that we could all be indicating signs of internal bleeding, or just give good-natured fight club grins now and again.

Praba understood how to use them: popping two, snapping them hard and kicking her head to the side to start the flow out the corner of her mouth. Sue and Lisa declined to employ the device. I waited with a few in my mouth until the gelatin started to weaken, then spit out the contents. It really was bad tasting. How can anything not bad for you taste quite that bad? It had to be bad for you and no one was telling. I popped another.

Alan had a handful and when I looked over to him to see how he was doing, a three foot thread of drool was coming out of his mouth. It wasn’t even tinted pink. He was just standing on stage, playing bass, and drooling this massive drool.

So, yeah these things work perfectly.