How I should be doing things.

Looking accomplished is the way to go.

Wear your clothes loose, and orally fidget with a unlit Schimmelpennick, moving it to the corners of your mouth when you talk (don’t take it out!).

Walk slow, stop and look at random things in the street and then shake your head in a world-weary and bemused fashion. Carry an unloaded shotgun and a glass of Pimm’s everywhere. Particularly the video store.

At the video store, ask the clerk if they have popular American films dubbed into other languages, or are at least subtitled.

Shake your head in a world-weary and bemused fashion when the kid shrugs. Go to the Dairy Queen, order a banana split and douse the thing in Cognac. It’s up to you if you want to light it on fire. If the clerk is attractive, wink at them. Come in next week and give him or her a limoge box filled with cocaine as a tip.

Eat at quiet bistros, reflecting on the beautiful sadness of life. Get drunk and order everything en flambe, even the bread. Sigh, then get a hot lather shave from the waiter.

My should, life is better now, isn’t it?

Pomade things. Pomade your hair straight back and encourage your teeth to buck out. Wear colognes made from things not generally acknowledged to smell all that nice, like old polo mallets.

Take tango classes, and insist on carrying a bowie knife in your teeth as you dance.

Carry sheet music, Debussey, and ask grocery clerks if they can read music, and if they do, ask them to hum a few bars of Debussey. “I am willing to pay whomever to have this service performed.”

Bring a saber to Home Depot and hack away at two-by-four made of exotic wood. Explain: “I’ll pay for this. I enjoy the smell of steel on teak. Reminds of my time in the legion.”

That’s the life for me.

How I should be doing things.

Looking accomplished is the way to go.

Wear your clothes loose, and orally fidget with a unlit Schimmelpennick, moving it to the corners of your mouth when you talk (don’t take it out!).

Walk slow, stop and look at random things in the street and then shake your head in a world-weary and bemused fashion. Carry an unloaded shotgun and a glass of Pimm’s everywhere. Particularly the video store.

At the video store, ask the clerk if they have popular American films dubbed into other languages, or are at least subtitled.

Shake your head in a world-weary and bemused fashion when the kid shrugs. Go to the Dairy Queen, order a banana split and douse the thing in Cognac. It’s up to you if you want to light it on fire. If the clerk is attractive, wink at them. Come in next week and give him or her a limoge box filled with cocaine as a tip.

Eat at quiet bistros, reflecting on the beautiful sadness of life. Get drunk and order everything en flambe, even the bread. Sigh, then get a hot lather shave from the waiter.

Life is better now, isn’t it?

Pomade things. Pomade your hair straight back and encourage your teeth to buck out. Wear colognes made from things not generally acknowledged to smell all that nice, like old polo mallets.

Take tango classes, and insist on carrying a bowie knife in your teeth as you dance.

Carry sheet music, Debussey, and ask grocery clerks if they can read music, and if they do, ask them to hum a few bars of Debussey. “I am willing to pay whomever to have this service performed.”

Bring a saber to Home Depot and hack away at two-by-four made of exotic wood. Explain: “I’ll pay for this. I enjoy the smell of steel on teak. Reminds of my time in the legion.”

That’s the life for me.

Two Musical Interludes

Two anecdotes I like from the Ultraclassy World of Music:

As a young man in 1950's New York, composer Morton Feldman (sort of a minimalist New York dude that wrote dense and quiet pieces -- beautiful in a not readily apparent way) hung out a lot with Stefan Wolpe, a sort of intense German-born mad-scientist-type composer.

They were hanging out in Volpe's apartment in the Village, back when crazy composers sort of HAD to live in the Village, and Wolpe was ranting about how music had to appeal to the common man (strange, since Wolpe's music tends toward the academic).

"You need to write for the man on the street!" At which point, Wolpe points out the window of his apartment. Feldman looks out to see the man in the street, who at this self same moment happens to be Jackson Pollock.

Feldman's music does sound like that, music for a world where everybody is Jackson Pollock.

**

Frank Zappa is being interviewed by a Swedish journalist. I guess the Jonestown Massacre is still semi-fresh in the public consciousness at the time of the interview.

The Swedish Reporter: "You're song Jones Crusher, this is about how much hatred you have for Jim Jones that you actually want to crush him?"

Frank Zappa: "No. Actually that song is about a woman with extremely strong vaginal muscles."

The Swedish Reporter : "Oh... well that's very different,"

Good source for weirdo art and music by dead people

Ubu Web. Full of weird audio and video clips of weirdos like John Cage, Guy Debord, Beckett, etc. It's a bit overwhelming.

John Cassavetes punching Ronald Reagan in the face.

Did you know Microsoft has their own brand of sparkling water?

It's called Talking Rain, and it comes in flavors like Lemon Lime and Kiwi Strawberry. And there's Microsoft shit all over the can.

I was up at Microsoft yesterday, so I had a chance to enjoy a Talking Rain Lemon Lime. I think the can had a Windows Server System logo on it.

They have hundreds of fridges stocked with this crap, free to employees and visitors.

I also learned a new term: Microbonics.

That's the internal Microsoft authentic popeye gibberish language.

Brother Theodore

If you're a regular reader, and have wondered what I'm like in person, this isn't to far off:



My favorite Brother Theodore quote:
"Ladies and gentlemen, it is my sincere wish that immediately after my death, my head be severed from my body, and that it be replaced by a bouquet of broccoli. It's the artist in me."

Flower Travellin' Band

Roughly the Blue Cheer of Japan. Great Japanese acid rock.



Hat tip to the inimitable slickdpdx (a distant relation toMr. Mxyzptlk) of the even inimitabler-to-being-sui-generis Known Unknowns.

Okay, I laid it on a bit thick.

In case nothing makes sense anymore..

... at least Marmuduke will become a little less opaque. Joe Mathlete Explains Today's Marmaduke in 500 words or less.

People want me dead. Why? Because I'm DANGEROUS.

Got my first death threat email the other day. Man, was that exciting!

Here it is:

SUBJECT: I DON’T DEATH THREATEN PEOPLE

BODY: Dude. I am not playign. You are going to stop giving me grief.
There are some fools in eugene, oregon.
Stop. You’ll be sorry

My goodness! I was mildy creeped out when I first read it, then, sad to say, wondering if this guy was a regular reader of my blog. Then I saw a bright, shiny object and promptly forgot the whole thing until this morning, when I received the following email”


SUBJECT: it's obivious that I am an idiot sometimes

BODY: You are funny shit, and I am letting fools work me (not you, I don't even know you)
So I'll learn to deal with it, punch my wall, or just leave it alone all together, but I won't send threatening
e-mails to strangers.

I fucked up


So, I can no longer say I’m on someone’s death wish. And my life is a lot poorer because of it.

At least I'm "funny shit".

Don't tell my wife.

I got her some cool prints. Witness:





Best of all, because I am a tightfisted, ruthless swine, they're ONLY TWENTY BUCKS EACH. Ha! You can get really sweet-ass, inexpensive art for your love interest at 20x200

Because I'm uploaded images like a damn fool tonight, I thought I'd upload the oddest writing project I have ever worked on: a snowboard deck. A coworker has a side-gig designing decks, and he asked if I wanted to help him out. The result is below. All those little shapes are schematics of ur-stickers, stickers that your average lunkhead snowboarder would slap on your average snowboard deck. It's all very meta.

Go Frank.

There's this guy, Frank Chu. He's a fixture in downtown San Francisco, an eccentric (well, more than an eccentric. More like a schizophrenic) that has a standing bottomless tab in various bars in the Financial District. His claim to fame, other than holding his family hostage in the mid-eighties, is his ongoing protest against the 12 Galaxies.

Or he's for the 12 Galaxies. Anyway, he has a lot to say about the 12 Galaxies, and he has a really nice sign (one of the service bureau in town make his signs for free) that he carries in and around Market and Montgomery, declaiming the evils (or benefits) of the 12 Galaxies. He also has a sideline demanding the impeachment of every president since Nixon. Nevermind that several are dead, and George W. Bush is the only one currently, you know, in office.

There's actually a nightclub in San Francisco named the 12 Galaxies in Frank's sign's honor.

So, to the point:

One of the service unions is striking downtown (the security guards?) and they are trudging, banging drums, chanting, all with grim Union-guy determination.

And there was Frank, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, holding up his 12 Galaxies sign high, keeping the Republic informed and diligent, ready to face the challenge presented by the 12 Galaxies.

Here's a short documentary about Frank Chu.

I will remember this date as long as I live

Historical dates, like July 4, 1776, or October 14, 1066, are actually the mark of a half-life, some dialectical mid-point in the shift from one historical trend to another.

I recently experienced a reminder of historical flux, thanks to an email thread. See below:

From Peter C. to Greg Mills
Subject: Metal!
10/13/07

Both Boris and Om at Amoeba SF tomorrow at 2:00. Interested? Lost me cell (and with it your number). Our house phone is xxx-xxx-xxxx

Best, Peter

***

From Greg Mills to Peter C.
Subject: RE: Metal!
10/13/07

Pete --

Dude, I can't. I gotta take the kids to a 5K Fun Run, then we have to go to a playdate.

Mills

It’s all happening at the zoo. Really. And it’s disgusting.

Something is in the water at the Oakland zoo. Something… libidinal.

Took Owen today to see what we could see, and what we saw were a lot of animals getting busy – with each other and, more problematically, themselves.

The usual suspects – the baboons and the chimp – were doing their jobs. But so were the elks. And the tigers. And…. the fruit bats?

With the fruit bats, there were mechanics in play that I just hadn’t considered before. The hanging upside down, the… never mind. It’s was truly horrific. The word prehensile comes in handy here.

The most priceless moment was watching a Sikh gentleman’s jaw drop in front of the bat enclosure. In a split-second he had corralled up his two school-age daughter and had them marching double-time to the pot-bellied pigpen down the slope.

Animals: they nasty.

Fantastically good news.

Ruby started uekele lessons today.

What happens when you subscribe to War and Peace via email?

You get many, many, many unread emails.

Oh, this the 401st post.

You know, maybe I should have used the past three years to write a book.

Nah.

Shopping

Paula is on the computer.

Me: “What are you doing?”

Paula: “Shopping.”

Me: “For what?”

Paula: “Black clothes for the kids.”

Me: “Why?”

Paula: “Grandma is 96.”

Me: “That makes sense.”

Thinking about Peter Gabriel. I know: ick.

So Peter Gabriel. I saw that douche once. I used to sort of like him, in a non-commital sort of way. The album with Shock the Monkey is pretty good, and Salisbury Hill is a decent enough song. It's just all so... earnest.

Anyway, I was thinking about Peter Gabriel today. His big trademark showstopper was walking to the edge of the stage, striking a Christ-like pose, then falling back into the audience and letting himself be passed around for a bit on the tops of everyone. Sort of like a Ouija board in negative.

So, I was thinking about this, wondering if he ever felt fear or whatever, then it struck me: of course not, because this was at a fucking PETER GABRIEL concert. People probably pressed mugs of camomile tea into Gabriel's mitts as they gentle beared him like a wounded and disadvantaged baby lamb Try that crap at a ZZ Top concert and you're going home with a custom tracheotomy.

Which brings up another point: you can take your Agnostic Front gigs, your big scary Hatebreed concert, your Fifty Cent show, but for scariest, most likely to be killed show, my money is on a ZZ Top or Molly Hatchet show at some god forsaken county fairground or Indian casino in the middle of July. The ONLY time I felt threatened at a gig was at a GEORGE THOROUGHGOOD show at the Concord Pavilion in the mid eighties. The folks attending that show are the ones buying carbon alloy Bowie knives from the home shopping network at four in the morning, gakked up on glue fumes and antifreeze. My friends and I were dancing, and you could see the hill behind us lit up with wolf-eyes, these forklift operators JONESING to try out their commemorative Iwo Jima brass knuckles on our pink subraban skulls.

You need to see this goddamn TV show.

Friday Night Lights. The first season is out on DVD, and I'm motoring through it.

In the topline sense, it's about a high school football team in Texas. Yes, I know. But bear with me.

It's not... like TV. It's as good as good as the Wire, or the Sopranos, and almost any movie I've watched in the past year.
The acting is nuanced, the writing is funny and smart.

It's really, really good.

Friday nights on NBC, 9 pm. I think you'll probably need to catch up with season one first though.

Goddamn!

Hutsan the wiled man

Ruby and Owen have a few friends that come to our house with their moms for dinner once a week.

Hudson is four, Oli is six and her brother, Elliot, is three.

Oli is pretty good at sounding out words; here's her handiwork.

(Found on a loose piece of binder paper on the floor this morning.)

1. Owin the bat kid
2. elliot the stripe man
3. ruby! the qeen of bees
4. hutsin the wiled man
5. OLIVIA the owl prinses
6. Ruby bee qeen of bees
7. HUTSAN! the wiled
8. OWIN Mistur JUMP
9. Owin is the bat
10. Hutsen is wiled man

The tracklist, more or less.

This is sort of the master list. Due to various instances of goofiness with I-Tunes, one track on the original mix got dropped, so some CDs will feature a song called "The Animal Speaks", by The Numbers Band (Chrissie Hynde's brother's band. Featured future members of Pere Ubu... I think. Anyway they're from Cleveland, they're sort of a new wave bar band and they have a sax player and the singer sort of talks instead of sings, just it case you end up with one of the super secret bonus cds.)

Also, because of ITune insanity, the track ordering is not consistent across all CDs, AND the tracklist didn't make it onto the CD. I'm very annoyed, and I was lazy, thinking ITunes would be a standup sort of application and burn the tracklist to the CD. It didn't. Bastard ITunes.

So the track list below is wrong for about twelve of the twenty CDs. Bastard hell jerk anus.

Get in the Damn Car

1. Modern Music Black Mountain
2. All Smiles And Mariachi Lambchop
3. Milk Man Deerhoof
4. My Love For You ESG
5. Frenchy, I'm Faking Architecture In Helsinki
6. Omaha Moby Grape
7. New York Groove Ace Frehley
8. Mary-Christ Sonic Youth
9. Food Music Appliance
10. Re-Make/Re-Model Roxy Music
11. Prozac Vs. Heroin The Brian Jonestown Massacre
12. Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere Matthew Sweet & Susanna Hoffs
13. So Long, Baby The Wedding Present
14. Blue Spark X
15. Funk #49 The James Gang
16. Joy Citizen Bird
17. Cool It Down The Velvet Underground Loaded
18. Vans The Pack
19. Bad Motor Scooter Montrose
20. Det Snurrar I Min Skalle Familjen
21. Paul Simon The Russian Futurists
22. Strange Wire

My daughter, the white kid.

Ruby is fascinated by race. Her brother has picked up the maltese/mexican pigment from Paula (what she calls her "chocolate good looks"), while Ruby has picked up my pale, sun burn-y type skin.

She's constantly prodding her brother, asking why his skin is so dark and hers is so light.

So we discuss the differences between people, how there lots of surface differences, but we all are people and blah.

Last night she asked me a mildly disturbing question: "Why do hip-hop people shoot other people?"

Me: "Who are hip-hop people?"

Ruby: "People on TV who do hip-hop, and have guns, and have skin like Owen's."

Me: "Uh, well, where did you see this?"

Ruby:"Last time I was at Grandma's, she fell asleep with the TV on and I watched a show where hip-hop people were getting chased by police and then arrested."

Oh dear.

So, after some discussion, I figured out that she was talking about gangbangers in particular, and not ALL people with skin like Owen's. Seems she inadvertantly watched COPS at grandma's.

So we talked some more about people are people and the sorts of things that make up Depeche Mode songs.

It was an odd discussion, but I've come to recognize that in no small way, parenthood is a series of odd discussions, ones that often leave you searching for words and force you to ask yourself how you really feel about stuff.

I wish I could say I came out of the conversation fully satisfied that I had help Ruby puzzle through a knotty issue, but I don't think I did.

I've been thinking about it most of the day, actually.

The on-set of a crippling neurological ailment?

Walking back from lunch today, I saw a woman loading a case of Pepsi into her car.

So I said,"Soda".

Just like that.

Not to anyone, just the sky. "Soda"

Am I going mad?

Me and Al, being nerds.

Al: "Dude, last night my friend twittered the best Xbox LIVE username: My Little PWNy."

Me: "At last someone gets it."

Al: "Although I think the best username I've ever seen is BilboFraggins."

Me: "That's awesome. It's like a tesseract of fucking radness. "

David Byrne writes songs about my father-in-law.

As I've noted elsewhere, my father-in-law owns an auto repair shop, and he's also a one-of-a-kind dude. To help out a down-on-his-luck sign painter, Paul dreams up all sorts of little projects for this guy, and as a result, Paul's shop is decked out in odd folk art.

I was down at the shop today, getting the car looked at and I managed to get off a few shots of choice aphorisms. Enjoy.

Please read this important FAQ regarding your forthcoming awesome CD.

This is an important mix CD. Let’s be clear about that. Sure, it’s not an ideal mix CD, if only because there is no fuckin’ heavy metal on it, but THIS SHIT IS TIGHT.

This shit is also heavy.

I spent the better part of the day compiling this (curating maybe a better term, more suited to the attitude of grave intensity by which I approached this grand project. Grammar and syntax can take the goddamn gas pipe) CD.

I’ve got to burn ‘em up and ship ‘em, which will happen tomorrow or the day after.

Being a bright, empathetic person, you probably sense you will soon be granted a glimpse beyond the mundane shell we struggle under daily, and into the deep and enternal welkin of the sublime. And being sensible, you have questions.

"What is this awesome and terrible covenant I am entering?"

I have tried to get anticipate your questions, and have endeavored to answer them as honestly and clearly as possible. I have to be frank here, this thing is bigger than me, so there are certain aspects of this CD that are truly beyond me. It’s that fucking awesome.

So, on the FAQ


Will this CD get me laid?

Indirectly. The CD avoids vulgar carnality, but the relentless tidal pressure of Stone Cold Jam will without of a doubt move your circadian rhythms to domains libidinal. I see this as a getting-ready-to-go-out CD. This is the jam to prime the pump, so when you hit the barn dance, you are already in full Dionysian freak out, so you will hit on everyone and anyone. This is dangerous stuff.

Is Morrissey on this CD?

No.

There is no Heavy Metal on this CD. Should I be concerned?

Certainly your concerns are well founded. Consider this scientific fact: many activities that we engage in that are unpleasant fail to feature Heavy Metal in any manner.

And now I ask you to consider this: this CD is a fuckin’ Stone Cold Jam. It doesn’t need Heavy Metal.

Can I listen to this CD while driving?

Yes. If anything, you will become a better driver because of this CD, especially if you are bombing down the freeway to Mexico in a ’72 Dodge Challenger with a case of Little King Cream Ale in the back seat. In the middle of the day, on a week day.

Am I going to die?

Because of this CD? Yes. No. I don’t know. It’s sort of out of my hands.


How many nations are represented?

I think, like, five. Six if you include one lead singer, who is Japanese but now lives in the San Francisco Bay Area.


Any songs you which you had included or taken out?

There are, I think, two points on the CD where I was initially skeptical of the song choice, but at this point, I’ve got to say fuck it, you know? This thing is what it is.

And what it is is a fuckin’ Stone Cold Jam.

Would you describe this CD as sounding like a unicorn shampooed in the tears of angels?

If the unicorn has wings of iron, and the angels are on PCP, then yes, I would describe this CD as sounding like what you said.