The Official Hog Blog
Tuesday, December 31, 2002
From December of twenty ought one:
Neo,
I e-mailed my resume, since I don't have a job, to The
Prague Post. I was hoping they'd give me the job and I
could get outta this hole I dug myself into. this
corner I done painted myself into. Visions of the
bridge, the beautiful young maidens. Cheap pitchers of
beer flowing into my brainpan, and if only I could
bring myself to move and not look back. My poor family
accepting this departure like a child waiting for the
rain to stop in summertime. If only I could drown
myself in the literature and culture so's my accent
becomes that of the czech like no others. somewhere in
between the french rolling tongue and the russian
nasal tchkk-ukking sounds.
I figured I'd immerse myself in the sounds and blend
the old world polkas and waltzes my grandparents sang
at reunions with a bit of the new and a bit of the ole
american country music I've been listening to lately.
Create a hybrid, of sorts, and become the next Hank
Williams. That job at the Prague Post seemed a ticket
I coudn't pass up on. I had a chance, man. My
experience should be enough.
Alas, I received a letter today. They want someone
with day to day newspaper experience, which I aint
got. FUCK. who the fuck wants to work every day at a
newspaper? hell, I guess I did. But not an American
paper. They responded quickly. At least they took the
time to really look at the thing. That's encouraging.
Lately, with the positions I've been applying for, I
haven't heard one thing or the other.
No, that's not right. I received a e-mail from
Listen.com. Y'see I sent them a resume for the
Receptionists position. Me, a fuckin reception. Can ya
stand it? Can ya see me answering the phones at a big
dot com and re-routing them to the fucking CEO.
"Good morning. Listen Dot Com, how may I be of
service?"
"Oh, hey there punchy, say whydontcha shoot me over to
the CEO's Office?"
"One moment please."
Beeeeeeeep
"Yeah, Yeah. What now?" say CEO
"Yes sir, there's a mister Don Givvafauch to speak
with you about your daily enema, sir. Should I shoot
him up to ya?"
fuck that, right. fuck that.
In the meantime, my dreams have turned to the obvious
again, and I think I will be starving soon. Its
allright, tho. I just got my government cheque and I
still know how to swim.
I hope all is well, dear friend. I will be in Chicago
soon. Mind if stay at yer pad for one week, or so in
January?
Stay black.
Jonny
PS: I got me some great music to show youse when I see
ya's. Some ole timey Religious music that sounds like
it was recorded on 78's. real scratchy stuff. amazin'
fierce and harmonic.
Monday, December 30, 2002
I am far too intrigued by the entire cloning issue read in the news these days, but I am. I searched on the organization that is linked to the Clonaid folks... Rael. He used to race cars, but now he's a prophet who has been contacted by the aliens who we have to thank for even existing! And I found some cool photos of Crop Circles...... Aaaah yes. Aliens started this species, the human. There is proof in fields of wheat. There are also signs that these aliens are going to contact us and take us into the skies with them, taking us into the outer regions of space so that we should live in peace and harmony. here is a photo of one of their space ships.
Do you think that Radiohead was contacted too? Could we be sent into space like the guy from N'Sync? Or was he in the Backstreet Boys? Have you ever been abducted by aliens? If you have any information on when we might be sent into space e-mail me at jon@fojimoto.com
Ooooh, I can't wait!
Thursday, December 19, 2002
He arrived late and she was asleep, awakening for a split second for a quick goodnight/hello kiss. This aint so bad, he thought. She's mostly asleep and still knows that its me sliding into bed at 3am. Even better, she aint hollering at him for smelling of wild turkey and cheap PBR. She had gotten piss drunk just two days before and wasnt about to judge him for passing out from booze.
In the morning, the alarms went off, and the morning was dark. Good. Its easiest, with a hangover, in the dark, or in the fog. Like a big dog lapping at your face, the rain flitt-flitters against bay windows. She crawled out of bed and re-set the alarm for him, taking care to step lightly so as to not disturb his sleep. It didnt work, so he sat up straight and wondered where he was aloud. She laughed and kissed him on the forehead, told him to shush, go back to sleep, he wont need to wake up for another hour. She was going to clean up and go to work a little earlier today. He laid awake only long enough to watch her undress. She escaped into the bath and he...... slept.
The dreams he had were sexual and watery. The light from outside peeked into his eyelids and the pink of morning became the alarms of morning. He lifted his head from the covers to her face in his, kissing him goodbye from the side of the bed and wishing him luck at his first day of work. The rain made it hard to get out of bed when his alarm went off.
After much deliberation, he awoke and went to work. The nite before was a bit blurry, but from the taste in his mouth, it must have been expensive. His tongue was dry and his head hurt. Where in the fuck did he park his car? Somewhere near the panhandle. Somewhere in the rain that beats down. Somewhere that made his boots muddied walking back to her apartment. He'd have to get them shined somewhere downtown on his way.
Aaaah, he thought, it wasnt expensive last nite because the bar tab was on the house. Good. Its easiest to stay drunk when its free. He'll go back into that bar again later on, and have to pay. But today's headache was free of charge, thank you very much, bartender.
The morning coffee was pulled from the coffee shoppe he hated. The suits that frequent it made him feel unimportant in his slacks with stained cuffs. He held a particular disdain for people who seemingly had no jobs, but seemingly endless means for consumption. They wear nice clothes and read the New York Times, a newspaper whose name is a million miles from here. They talk loud far too early in the day, and style their hair with Aveda products.
Monday, December 16, 2002
What did you do on Thanksgiving?
Thursday, December 12, 2002
Its the end of the year and everyone wants to sum it all up. what was the best things. Year end \ shmear end I could give a fuck about whether or some songs made your panties wet, nope. Me I wanna know how ya felt when yer cherry was busted. I mean unless you lost yer virginity this year, yer favorite songs of twenty ought two dont mean dick to me, and I dont mean to pun you.... it is true. not dick, man.
& have you heard of Steve Albini? He is all right with me, holmes.
Tuesday, December 10, 2002
I would like a copy of Jewels of Thought , by Pharoah Sanders on vinyl.
I would like a set of pro-mark sticks.
and a meal at least once a day for free, possibly a lunch here and there.
Sunday, November 24, 2002
I was sure I lived across the street from a prevert. You know.. someone who you know is perverted beforeyou even meet the guy . It was to be sure this cat was a freak. The girls down the block caught him offering drugs for sex.
There are street kids down the block from my crib, and these kids are all on heroin. Sure, some of them like to share speed, but for most... its heroin.
Scene as follows witnessed by aformentioned girls down the block:
so you got the stuff. yeah man i got it. well, where its at? its at my place. i aint goin to yer place. i tole you man, if you want the stuff what you'd have to do. man. and street kids go off to a building's shelter, where the posters cover the post no bills graffiti and its hard to tell which ios the advert until the rains wet the mans appetite and he shouts at them that he can find plenty of other kids to shoot up with tonite, until the kids agree only if the two can fix, sharing one's worth of junk. safety in numbers the way i see it, and these kids are smarter than the weirdo freakish drugs for sex guy.
The girls down the block may be embellishing this story, but it gets pretty seedy in the city, enough so's that I want to believe and stay indoors with my beer bottle and jazz, wishing that somewhere...
I knew to find the opium dens i've dreamed of, the underground absinthe cave, where the green liquids nearly deafen the sounds of life so much that people stop to check your pulse and wonder why the soul can become so dark. Wonder where we go when the sun is still out, yet we glossy eyed stumble from park bench to the grassy knoll to nap.
There is a man who sits on his haunches at the embarcardero center. business folks with ties and briefcases, lattes and agendas, credit cards and accounts to attend to... this cat on his haunces all day long shouts obscenities and absurdities, he said to me that i was the second coming of Cat Stevens, he told my girlfriend there was no need to worry, for the rapture will sweep us both up and into outer space where the aliens will serve jalapeno dip.
Wednesday, November 20, 2002
Could this be Bill?
Tuesday, November 19, 2002
Life isnt strange. Things in california are beautiful and people are as unhappy here as they could be anywhere. I guess the Great American past times havent been able to keep up with the great depressions of our times and lives. Records of it are found in the annals of desotos and the big red machines. Extremely innaresting, you ask me. I could be rippin it up with Ted like we was best friends, his personality is funny. I can keep up with the folks in the fast lane. Yes yes yes. The drought broke and the palace was the stuff of flying pigs. Much to be done, and I'm sure there are fewer copies and pipes involved by this time today, so maybe we can catch up with each other and I'll just flip it over on ya when we fake it in front of the children. Its really about that anyhow, innit? We dont want to shock anyone, escpecially the children, because we do it for them. We do it for the kids, really. The kids are alright after all, and who said that? The view from here is right down the street aways and we know that there aint no stage at the next gig, so's we had to get some day job.
Two cats that I know are gonna finish the job for me. One guys take on it is that he knows my man, Bill. Bill always adds that element of danger when you get him involved, so I gotta be careful with said 'cat' whom we will refer to as Jorge Montana. Montana says he can finish this gig without having to re-rig his works. He is willing to do this, like brutus and not fuck with his schemin'. You dig?
He is gonna play it straight, man.
Listen Man.... this shit is unprecedented, especially when you add young Bill, the dangerous element bespoke of..... I need the gig done, finis, rock n roll man. I need this shit to be gone and outta my sight. You dig? And I dont need no one to get me involved with it, yeah? Just keep my name out of it.
Sunday, November 10, 2002
Rip it Tippy. I found some of what Ole Neo had to say as innaresting, y'dig? I even wept at his reading of the fifth of Balvenie. It was awe inspiring. It was denominational. Hell, I'd even put him up for and award of some kind or a ribbon to be wrapped around his neck like a kerchief, or a babushka. He never smelled any good at that time, but his instincts told him otherwise. That by not bathing his creative muse was being stimulated. Something about the accumulation of scents, and the variety from day to day. None of us could tell which smell from the next, or how bad they compared to one another. Nope, we all resoundingly agreed that Ole Neo and his room in the run-down flophouse on Sybil were of the same scent and badly so. It was like someone's feet in there. Or a can of rotten vegetables, or even an open and ruined stash of fruits that had been in the sun too long than left out in the rain, and over-ripeness.
His writing, tho, was monstrous. It fused our psychedelic experiments with mushrooms and acid with that of the every day life. It had piieces of Ann Arbor's campus. The cube that spins around as big as a building and the Law quad with faces in the foundation and hermits wiothin its halls. The ice cream stores that we'd sneak into and steal away quarts, the basement being our refuge when the trips got too strong, we'd hide amidst the 'to go' cups.
Ole Neo travels lightly, even when he has weeks to stay away. He'd visited San Francisco back awhiles. We stayed up in the North End Caffe, and watched pretty girls go by when, in February, we had an off-chance bright and sunny day. He would recall the days we made fun of the professional students and the busy library that buzzed silently, like the television when its on, but has no picture. He asked me about the cordoroy novella, a project in pieces. A book, its cover was made out of cordoroy material, that began with empty pages, only to be fiulled with entries from anyone and everyone we could get to write in it. It was a documentation of what we felt was real. a depiction of the every day occurrences during that period in our lives, but done so in a way that poked fun at the mundane existence that is. It poked fun and even pulled excitement from mundanity.
I found that novella and the following is a piece written by Ole Neo. The date is uncertain:
bold as love.
Mulch Member ( Since 1892) Schlitt Blatt Ham. (Framhamington. The Republic of Westport)
Demise of Western arrogance. The Disintegration of the mental kapitol; though inherent to our warped minds. An ethno centric prentension abolished, made obsolete, untenable. The tired and rickety Superstructure collapses. Who though t it would happen during our time?
The factories of Archogonia churn out the products of our demise. The zombies in the streets walk without a conscience, assigned to their posts. A civilzation is crushed by the heels of Doc Martens. A culture vomits itself like death choking on its vile diet of gummi worms, 'polo clothing,' romance novels and worthless labour. The aptitude for thought is stifling, the jokes of mental activity is squeezed out of the bitter liquid of humans. the elixir is formed and is the intoxicant of the industrial barons. THey drink to the stupidity of their slaves, laughing savagely at the indecent achievement, quaffing the brain brew indignantly. The greasy solution rolls down Rolf's chin and stains Armani suit. He scoffs as he rips the jacket off and crams it into a garbage canister. the canister shuts itself up, mechanically, and a low, deadened explosion is felt for a few feet surrounding it. No one averts their eyes or tries to avoid the situation. This is disposal.
Rolf's Acquaintance for the evening is startled, and a little afraid, but she's good at hiding her real emotions; perhaps there is little to hide. "Care for a gulp, Rebecca?" he inquires, " It's really quite invigorating. Ther thoughts move so much faster. They're clear and distinct and I've never forgotten a thought I've had while under the influence." He chokes down another high-ball glass full of the pulpy, incandescent substance. His eyes, oh, his eyes. They seemed to have turned gray for just one moment. Entirely gray. Pupils gone, no whites, just gray. He came out of, his face contorts and his teeth show as if he were gnawing his way out of some invisible bag, as if he had to scream to escape. Like a satiated cannibal and that of a necrophiliac engaged in a graveyard tryst. She wanted to run. He wanted her to beg him for her life. But maybe he'd come out of it. Maybe he'd spare her. Maybe she should start guzzling the brain brew to catch up to him.
Thursday, September 26, 2002
My records provide for me. In times of need, my records can bring me wealth. My records can bring me happiness. My records can bring me new friends, and possibly an evening of free booze. My records can provide me with a warmth in the rainey season. My records can inspire during a writer's block. My records can wield beauty and disgust in the same fifteen minutes. My records hold low bass tones and deep meanings that aren't worth the two-fifty I paid for it. My records can make a grown man cry. My records have the dizzying effect on me that only occurs when ingesting heavy amounts of drugs, or when you fall in love. My records smell like nostalgia, and conjure images of thanksgiving dinners with uncles who smoked reefer in the back yards. My records have been handled by some of the snobs in high society, and have had joints rolled within their gatefolds. My records have been stolen. My records are stolen goods. My records have been sampled. My records have been borrowed and my records have broken. My records speak eras to me and fill me in on the scenes I aint been introduced to. My records are a history lesson on what the cities were like years ago, and even today as the musicians tell the tale like a griot teaches the ways.
Monday, September 23, 2002
Drive down any of the back roads with corn on either side 'a ya on a heatful dog day of summer near the harvest moon's fullness and bound for the fog. There are maybe twenty feet you can see in front of you, and the noises make you walk slower. As if the fog held stranger creatures than what we could see outside of it. Richie would ask his poppa where the fog went as the car floated through it like in a cloud. His poppa would say its all around us, but we are a part of it right now, so it seems as though there is no difference between us. And then Poppa would laugh loud and hard for a long time. Poppa never told Richie that these philosophical answers to his very serious and rightly so as the young boy was at an age when each and every occurrence is a new and astounding event.
Questions were the nonsense of an aging man and his habit of smoking joints on his lunch breaks and on his coffee breaks and in the evening after dinner. Poppa would sit underneath the willows along the river and entertain the many questions his son could pitch at him. Can you eat a crawdad? yup. Where do winds come from? the west. What is a butterfly made of? same as you and me, just a bit smaller. If you were a robot what would you do? I'd get all my laundry done with a snap of my fingers.
Driving down the back roads, the moon rising above the tree line and the bats whipping from pines to barn windows. Cicadaes beat out rythyms in a chorus with crickets, each round becoming more furious than the last. The ranchero they drove was a speedy car with a booming loud stereo system. Poppa would blare ,jazz and hindi chants during the week, and on sundays nothing but the blues. That's when Richie's pop would take him down to Rupp's donut shop near the edge of town. Sure kids aint supposed to have no coffee at that age, but it was a special day...
"Sunday is God's day," Poppa would tell Richie, "and we aint got to go to work on God's day."
So, instead of going to work, on God's day, they'd get pretty hopped up on coffee and donuts, take the Ranchero out to Mason Road and haul ass to the end of it, kicking dust up and fishtailing around like hell on wheels. Built along the riverbed, Mason swerved along four miles of the dog-legged Klamath River. The dust would settle and the fellas would flip the bitch and hightail down Mason Road one last time,
Wednesday, September 18, 2002
I didnt expect him to say he would go ahead with the plan as we had concocted it under the auspices of pleasantries over whiskey. More or less like a pissin' contest until the one of us who had less to drink, which wasn't me, claimed I was a pussy and couldn't pull off a right crime if I came up with one. That I couldn't come up with a crime to begin with even! In response, I promptly came up with an idea that I was willing and able to pull off. Exclamating the arrival of this glory with a self-righteous "So, Fuck YOU anyhow."
I further goaded him with a couple of well timed jabs at his ego by mentioning his elderly status and that he was halfway home to jesus, and that his pussy ass wouldnt sit shotgun on this, what could be the charade of all charades...
"See how far it can go? Is that where we gonna have to draw that line, huh?" my drinking partner says, "I'm like a trusty dawg that acomp'nies the fisher, hunter or with a trapper. That guy is gonna make sure he gets the best damn dawg in the litter, he's gonna baby that puppy with love and than turn around and train him to kill at a command. That guy teaches the dawg heal. get, sit, kill, speak, and fetch! That guy gives the dawg a purpose and with it the dawg is grateful. He's gonna give that dawg everything and that dawg becomes that guy's best friend. When's the time, he aint gohn get up in that trap and wrastle a coon outta it, teeth wrapped around its legs. When's the time he aint gohn dive headlong into the lake after a shot goose? Are you gohn say to me that if you had a trusty dawg he wouldnt do that?"
"Shit fire, man. I didnt expect you to say you would go ahead."
"What'd you call me?!? Did you just call me goat head?!? I oughta kick yer ass! You would call yer own daddy a goat head!??!?"
Friday, September 06, 2002
go to heck of tastee, bro. its the bomb, diggity. dont forget your can of cheez whizz, neether.
Wednesday, September 04, 2002
Greg McIlvaine had a art opening. and these famous people chilled out and talked about how fantastic it all is.
I was writing a blues song:
"I dont pay you no mind, while yer laughin at me.
I pay you no mind, while yer laughin at me.
you kick me when I'm down, and you dont even know my name.
you ask me to leave town, but brother I aint gohn play yer game."
Saturday, August 31, 2002
Jazz Legend, and creator of one of my favorite songs of all times with possibly the best title for any song.... EVER,
Happiness,
has passed on and into that swingin big band in the sky. Dizzy, Miles, Trane, Bags, and the like are all in that heavenly chorus, dawg.
I'm a miss that Hampton, Lionel.
Thursday, August 29, 2002
I've longed for these foggy, summer days. The days when the fog laps at my face like a big ole friendly dog. I awake to foggy mornings gratefully and slow, stretching myself under a number of covers so that my feet make creaking noises, hanging over the end of the bed. I didnt have to fretfully tear any of my warm pajamas off' a me in the middle of the night, and that is nice. The sun doesn't blind me. So, peering out into the world doesnt shock my senses. Cold mornings and I can wear a new cap on my head, hiding my intentions of not showering today. Hot coffee and a scarf in the middle of August. I wonder how difficult it must be to enjoy a hot coffee in New Orleans at this time of the morning. I can wear this oversized sweater that I've had in my closet since I was in my teens. Its holes in it allow me to choose which to poke my head or arms through. Its brown and stained from wine and silly spray. I've never taken it to a dry cleaner, and it smells like a campfire or the upstairs attic. Like all good things, I stole it from a friend of mine. He knows it that I have it. If he saw me wearing it today, he'd walk right up to me and say,"Nice sweater you got there, hog." I would return it to him someday except that I secretly think he don't even want it anymore.
Music is muffled in the fog, like environmentally sound. Muted trumpets gleam in the fog. I can hear tunes off in the distance as I stumble half awake, the fog inviting me to dazily live a half dream during awakened hours, through the city. The notes fade in and out of neighborhoods, giving each their own personality, and when the fog breaks in the Mission, its not rocket science that mexican polkas blare from low-riders, "viva la raza" etched into the windows.
The folks on the N Judah dont smile when the fog takes over Cole Valley, cold as unwanted ice-cream. They sit and read their papers. They'll readjust themselves making room for each other, but sometimes they harumph.
I feel so good today, I dont even mind that what I write matters so very little.
Saturday, August 24, 2002
Alright. here is the second set to the previously mentioned mix tape. I am naming this MixTape_August 24. nice right?
Side Two
Faye Dunaway – Erik Olsen
Waitin for a Superman – The Flaming Lips
Life on a chain – Pete Yorn
Its Only Life – The Feelies
KingPin – Wilco
No Expectations – The Rolling Stones
Northern Sky – Nick Drake
Children Don’t get Weary – Booker T and the MG’s
I’m Still Here – Tom Waits
High and Dry – Radiohead
Simone – Stone Roses
Sometimes – My Bloody Valentine
Do you Realize? – The Flaming Lips
[incidentally, the tape features songs from Erik Olsen and John O'brien. Both of which were swiped off'a my roomie and bandmate, Marwan, who has pre-master demos of each of these artist's new albums. And they sound super sweet.]
Today, I started a mix tape. Kate Sullivan , famous blogger and rock writer, inspired me to do so. She mentioned, in her blog, a mix tape about California. You should read her blog sometime. She's a funny and sincere person who has a great sense of style when it comes to music. So, here I am in the foggy, overcast Berkeley, California trying to put together a masterpiece. An ode to the foggy day. One of those tapes I can put on and listen to when it rains and I wish I had a fireplace.
Here is the list of songs and order for side one:
Sugarman – Sixto Rodriguez
Are you A Hypnotist? – Flaming Lips
Doc Martin Blues – John O’Brien
A Girl Like You – Pete Yorn
By Your Side – Beachwood Sparks
Summer Breeze – Seals and Croft
What if we give it Away? – REM
Never want to see you cry – The Verve
Jealous Guy – John Lennon
How to disappear completely – Radiohead
Something by Calexico
Julie and Candy – Boards of Canada
If you want, I can make you a copy of it! Just ask. I'd love to, Punchy. Really I would.
Saturday, August 17, 2002
Still in Michigan. Its hot. Lots of family time and upstairs from where I sit, my nephew and his mamma (Tricia Fojtik) are playing with trains. Maxwell is 2 and a half, and he is crazy for trains. Its so hard to turn him down when he says,"Unc'a Jon, play trains!" I'm usually the caboose or the coal car cuz Max is always the engine. No bones about it, this redheaded spitfire is in charge over here. His little sister, just a few months old sits idley by in her baby seat that rocks up and down like a bouncing La-Z-Boy when she kicks her left foot up. Her name is Lily and she has the darkest blue-grey eyes. I like to call her my little punk rock cuz she has a mohawk by God's own design. She loves to laugh and smile and gurgle at me. When Max, who loves her dearly yet can't seem to learn how play gently just yet, gets close to her to snuggle up, she makes faces. Faces like the kind of face you make when you know something bad just might happen and all you can do is anticipate it. She kind of cringes I guess. She's getting used to being his little sister.
The Fojtik family is preparing for tomorrow's reunion, when a hundred and more czechs gather round tables of chicken and dumplings and sauerkraut and pastries. We'll drink plenty of beer ("They got a keg this year!" exclaimed Jim Fojtik, my pops) and we'll pull out a few button boxes... or accordions to the uninitiated... to sing old world waltzes and polkas. Yesterday, as I helped my mamma with cooking up some dumplings and prepared the sweet sauerkraut, she pulled her own accordion out to show me how well she could still play. Damn. That was real cool, too. She played that K.D. Lang song, "Constant Craving." I jumped in to sing the words I've always made up for that tune..... "Instaaant Graaaaavy!" We laughed.
Have you ever prepared Sauerkraut for shishke? Did you know its to be washed before cooking? I sure didnt. But wash it I did. Mamma even taught me how to wash it! Think about it. How would you clean a vat of sauerkraut?
Wednesday, August 07, 2002
I lit out on a southbound train yesterday. From Emeryville to LA, and into the arms of Greg & Molli McIlvaine. Molli is expecting a baby, so most of our conversations have revolved around the preparation and anticipation of the baby's arrival. Greg is an artist who has an upcoming show to prepare for, as well as preparing for the arrival of a new McIlvaine in the family. To say the least, these two have the world by a string, like a yo-yo... and they can do tricks. Around the world, walking the dog, the cradle... all of it. I always try to visit when I am travelling. And they have always (knock on wood) invited me into their home. I havent offended them yet.
Molli brought me to the LA Amoeba records store. Now, I'm used to digging through the stacks in Berkeley. I was impressed with their stocked vinyl. Lots of it! I even picked a few out to be sent back North while I'm away from home. I know, I'm a fiend, and my record collection takes up more space then anything else... But hey, I like the music. Today, I bought The Terrible Frankie Nieves, a latin record with a great rendition of Ten Quidado. I also picked up The Ebullient Dizzy Gillespie for its renditions of Swing Down Sweet Cadillac, and Ungawa. Finally, I picked up a latin Boogaloo album that I'm only getting used to.. That is to say that none of it punches me in the gut the way music should if it really turns me on... There is a great versiojn of Caravan on it, so I hope to find it more engaging eventually, but we'll see. The Gillespie album is one of those rare and beuatiful records that should be in every jazz lover's collection. The recording is warm, and the players are in the zone. Chano Pozo's percussion vacillates from the subtle tapping during solos to full-on afro-cuban Orisha style. Other players on the record are: Junior Mance on piano, Leslie Spann on flute and guitar (sounding every bit like Kenny Burrell, somehow), Sam Jones on Bass, and Lex Humphries on drums. Great session indeed.
Tonight, my gracious hosts will drop me off at Union Station and I'm off to Chicago. Three days and two nights on the California Zephyr through the hotness of the summertime. Whoo Whee, I'm gonna smell bad by the time I reach my destination.
Tuesday, August 06, 2002
I wrote this little ditty when the infestation of tyrranesaurus teenagers dangled their spindly arms over second and mission, a hole underneath 'em where the street urchins slept. You remember the giganti-waifs? The Gap ads that hovered over every creature downtown a few years back? Their jeans slung low enough to see an enormous, cavernous belly button, that tempted us onto the Khaki craze and asked us to sing along with a peter frampton song. Ole Ginsburg died during the writing of this one here, kiddo, and I wasnt none too happy about it so's it a bitter pill to swallow... I think you can handle it, tho.. punchy, you got what it takes...
This, dear friend, Punchy... is submitted to you without preview. Editing may not ensue for days as I have a train to catch. I might not be here tomorrow, kiddo, so dont say I never gived ya nothing when I'm gone.
The Gap
The gap beneath your blue stare, eclipsed sigh and outstretched arm,
reaching and pulling in tug-o-war.
Beneath your roaring twenties hair flop, wisps tickling my stomach and
trickling beads of sweat down.
Beneath a tumultuous underground descent into ghetto womb, paradoxic
re-birth hyperbole, beneath grime stained rainbow-walls, language from
another world feeding hungry-homeless visions of ice cream& keeping it
as simple as a drumstick.
Beneath perfect lolling hills with white satin snow. Uncover
splendourous caverns, my longing & relish litost.
Beneath sunny accents stretching tastes nothing like a flower.
Beneath illusions of hands shaking in historic reconciliation, each
grip a tightening noose around us like papier mache.
Beneath angelic, monotonous cherubs bored with fags, jazz and drugs,
your virgin breast rises and sighs in the wind/wound in the land of
great fire. Colorful feathered fans bid farewell to never-ending innocence.
Beneath a vast ceiling, acoustics enshrouding drapery, a glass of
sherry – a lush life tear – soaked pillow.
Beneath the underdog, his outstretched arm, lips dry with peristalsis;
rotten teeth & brown tongue through “thpare tchange?”
Beneath pursed lips & silhouetted shins, glimpses of a lace paradise &
chiffon bondage.
Ya fooled me old teenager! By summoning bohaemian daemons with
fossilized wanderlust visions like gargoyles…
Ya fooled me old teenager! With rambunctious maniacal rantings that
screamed finger fuck, stink fist, and day’s old sex-scent!
Ya fooled me old teenager! Ya coolly leaned into a lamp post, burned a
fag,
hit on city-girls, groped at them passionate-like in alleys… coerced
into sexual debates.
Sex? Money?
Fuck? No? fucky, fucky?
Ya fooled me old teenager! Bronzed denim, worn through at the knee…
Could ya step over me?
Could ya step over me? Hemlines rising as my beard thickens into
patchy moss, over chin.
Could ya step over me? Gnawing at my fingertips, I ain’t got no
cigarettes.
Could ya’s step over me? Weighed down by a mailbag, parcels drooping
like a palm tree. Could ya step over me? Old teenager?
Ya fooled me old teenager, each dark flower pulled from brown star,
each leghorn pulled from gastronomic alleys like Albert Ayler, his
intestinal posterity pushing jake-walk, 50/50 blues.
Ya fooled me ole Teenager, each gnarled hair pulled me toward the edge
like an obtuse monkey, craning for a glimpse of sweet oblivious peril.
Ya fooled me ole teenager, each upended milk crate and demolished
drum-beat pulled blood from the skin once white, now black, brown and beige.
Ya fooled me ole teenager, muscles stressing against the bars,
Old teenager, with succulent power, ole teenager who tied me to my
executioners table, tied me with ions, to plastiscene orgasm!
Ya fooled me ole teenager! Ya taught me depth and horrible sexual
positions. Ya taught me pain, longing & careless addictions/ ya gave me
fastidious looks & used big words. Ya found me on the south side of
Chicago, a Malcolm X baseball whizzing by, ya found me as old teenager looking
for revolting cocks,
Ya found ME, ole teenager, beneath a buoyant breath of loving lungs,
beneath propel butterflies ‘neath my heart fluttering in space… open
imaginable drum roll! Paradiddles – flamacues – ratamacues & ruffs. YES!
RUFFS! Say it with me one time:
RUFFFFS!
Beneath waltz-ama-jigs, rhumba-trots, and foxy- polkathons.
Beneath pharaohs & herons & trains & presidents & & dukes & birds &
Miles & monks & Traps & Kings & Queens & Tones. Deep, Deep Tones.
The Deep Jones.
Monday, August 05, 2002
Hey! Lookit at the fojimoto blog!
Monday, July 29, 2002
Last March, my great friend, Neo, came into San Francisco, with high hopes on beating us all at a game of Shuffleboard. Y'see, there's a bit of a rivalry amongst a few shuffleboard players,Neo included. He's always told tall tales of cheap tricks and dirty mistakes. He sometimes even spits out a chunk of garbage for no reason but to startle and confuse anyone within spittin distance. He writes good shit, to those of you who aint hep, and I submit to you, our readers, his triumphant foreshadowing of events when Ned's games of shuffleboard, or shufflefuck, as it were... when Ned's game of Shufflefuck turned Doc's Clock into the grand prix of Shufflefuck.
"Tonight there is talk of Shufflefuck and I wait impatiently to match up
with
SF Shufflefuck contingent, to show those mothers that all this
California
foolishness won't fool an old Chicago salt who plays his shufflefuck
dirty
and rough like a bull in a ring and if you really want to see a
bullfight,
take a cape and sword away from the matador and that's the kind of
fight I
like--straight up, no hitches, no bullshit, no games--I take my own
hits and
I dish them out quick and plentiful, toss a puck down the lane and I
will
take the greatest of pleasure knocking that bitch down into the pit of
the
damned, my puck glides sure and confident, strong and steadfast. Down
they
go, clustering up like a band of rock-headed brutes full of animosity
and
xenophobic rage, knowing no kindness nor guilt, filled with bad
breeding and
bad breath, pucks that come on like stiff pricks, they arrive like a SF
fog,
quick and heavy, and I thought I'd make those intentions, indications
and
reports known to all interested persons who might endeavor to tangle
with,
challenge or otherwise impede the rise and ultimate conquering of the
coveted
SF Shufflefuck Cup and I shall, after the eventual and inevitable
usurpation
of said cup, I shall return to the city of Wind bolstered on high by
the
powerful gusts in a throne of gold, holding the cup in hand, filled
with the
sweetest of wind and attended by rosy faced children naked in their
innocence, winged and laughing, ringlets of their hair bouncing in the
wind,
their chubby fingers reaching for the cup and dipping in the wind, the
clouds
rolling in, turning gray, and as I gulp the Adam's apple working up and
down
as I drain the cup and as one of the little creatures reaches again to
fill
the cup and somewhere behind over Lake Michigan a peal of lightening,
rolling
thunder and Neo on high, sipping and laughing now with mischievous
rambunction, spilling wine with wasteful carelessness, the elevated
throne
rising higher and higher, empty wine bottles tossed away into the sky
and
raining down toward the streets, laughter all around with thunder and
crashes
of waves and the laughter begins to take on the tones of Laughing Sal,
erratic, insidious, no longer jovial, no longer light or naive, seeming
to
suggest a hint of evil, a hint of horror, and suddenly a round of
coughing,
Neo doubled up, wine streaming from the corner of his mouth, the child
cherubim dispersing and abandoning him in fear, the throne veering off
over
the great lake where below the waters have grown dark and moiled, rain
begins
to fall and the chalice drops from his hand as he slumps back, his arm
over
the rest and his hand limp and stained with wine, and now the throne
divested
of it's angelic motivations beginning to plummet toward the waters
where a
frothy maelstrom begins swirling in its rage opening up like a whale's
mouth
and the throne caught in the whirlwind, twisting downward and is
swallowed up
by the upward reaching outward edges of the storm which engulfs Neo,
throne,
the velvet capes and scepter with it's golden embellishments and
intricate
carvings, in one vicious chomp and then retreating back into the water
and
the seas begin to calm, the sky's crimson rage fading to tranquil blue
and
life returns again to its silent idiocy as the cup rolls on the waves
and
arrives on the shores among dead alewives and cigarette filters,
seaweed and
driftwood."
Thursday, July 25, 2002
When fojimoto played the Hotel Utah last, Peter Zarling, was in the audience and like many of the crowds to see live music do... left before the end of a set. I can't expect everyone to want to rock and roll all night and party every day, as is the want of such persons as myself. Instead, I chill. I try to take shit like this in stride and let everyone go about they own pace. I gotsta lets em take it how it comes, you dig? You gotta git when its time to get. thats all they is to it. So, I waved to my man from behind the drum kits and reckon I'll see him another time.
The next day, he sent me an email:
"That was a great show last night, man....I'm sorry I didn't get to
stick around and chit chat after, but I had an early meeting and had to get
some sleep...
What a show, though! Some of my favorite moments:
1) The little bit of Beasties....Always a good thing, but very
unexpected.
2) Marwan's alternate guitar riffs....It's always nice to hear
something different in a song...If I just wanted the straight performance, I'd
listen to the CD....Nice to hear it mixed up a little.
3) Having people come onto the stage to sing the last song...I wanted
to come up and sing myself, but since I can't sing shit, I thought it
best to leave it to the experts....
4) The improvisation while Marwan re-tuned his guitar....All 3 of you
have good chemistry.
Keep on, keepin' on, man. I ain't
just sayin' it...I think it's some quality music.
Cheers,
--Peter
Monday, July 22, 2002
Hole
On turning sixty-one, Edmond decided to dig a deep hole in the back yard. Maybe it was the beginning of something for him, but he wasnt so sure. You've got to start somewhere getting some things done. By digging the hole, the act of filling it with something would soon follow. It was his birthday and the neighbors exclaimed at how hard he worked at it at his age. He paid little mind to it and went about his task as if it were any other day. It's not easy digging a hole in the middle of the yard in the middle of the heat of the middle of summer. No way. But dig, he did. He dug all of the afternoon, and kept on with it until after the sun set in the evening, stopping for a short rest to watch it go down along the I-75 highway, turning the hazey horizon a pink color as headlights began turning on. At night, he remarked to himself at how much easier it was to dig when the sweltering heat had dropped. The moonlight was enough for him to see where the shovel was going, even if he had to squint. He had the right momentum and swung that shovel without even thinking after a bit. He could practically do it without looking.
Edmond continued digging through the night and into the next day, taking short breaks for food, which his wife dutifully and abley brought to him. She was perturbed... rather, confused... but she loved him so and didnt stop to question him. Instead, she brought him smoked ham sandwiches and a pilsner. The ham, on dry rye bread, with a slice of swiss cheese would be gobbled up in three or four quick bites.
"Aaah," Edmond said after taking a pull of of the bottle of beer," Those Czechs really know how to make beer."
Shaking his head in amazement, he finished it off with a couple of gulps and a couple of more exclamations about how the czechs knew how to brew beers, then it was back to that hole in the ground.
After a couple of days and nights, with naps every ten hours or so... That hole was dug as deep as a cavern and big enough for Edmond to lie flat on his back without his head nor his feet touching the walls. He walked around the hole in circles and counted his paces, 2... 4...6... 8...10...12...13. Thirteen paces made it close to twenty feet wide. It was as big as his office! Getting out of the hole was a task, so Edmond flung a rope down into it from above, making a rope ladder to enter or exit when he needed some tools from the shed or if he needed to use the bathroom. The more Edmond stayed underground, though, the less he came above ground. He began to prefer being underground, in fact. It was comfortable down there, in all of its muted glory.
"You can't hear the highway from down here!" he yelled at his wife with sandwiches and beer, "and there are worms down here, too! Worms with a million legs like they had nothing better to do but walk and crawl!"
"oh, honey, won't you please come to bed," she'd call back at him,"it getting late."
No, no," he said, " I must finish this hole."
Edmond only left that hole to use the bathroom. He planned on digging a side room where he could have a basin for him to wash in and a bucket for waste. The smell would be horrendous, but who would smell it? Just Edmond, and he could live with it.
The hole was more home to him than his 4-car garage. It had importance the he revered higher than his marriage. He felt as if he'd accomplished more by digging this hole than in winning any competitions he'd been in, and certainly this hole meant more to him than any of the foolhardy escapades he'd gone on. This hole was the sum of all his dreams to be, and all his goals to that point. It was the deepest he'd ever dug, and he continued to dig. He was committed to finish it. But when does a hole stop needing to be dug?
Eventually, he slowed his digging to near a halt. Edmond spent his days and nights underground listening to the muted world above him. It was never perfectly quiet. Even at night. Most the noises from insects to planes to trains and anything that hoots in the middle of the night became his orchestra, while he laid at the bottom of the hole and watched the pin-prick of a glimmering ceiling. He stared up and the busy world moved back and forth. The world was driving from the malls to the supermarkets to the drive-throughs to the movie theatres to the schools to the coffee shops to the bookstores to the supermarkets to the home to the drive-throughs and Edmond would hear it all as if he were in outer-space looking at it from a home made telescope.
He was far away from it all, and felt like that world was suffocating him all this time. His car, his wife, his home, his job, taxes and the Dow, all of it was stifling. The hole muffled the world and in the hole, he was able to breathe deeper than before. It was a silent place to be, and Edmond began smiling at himself. Laying there, he looked as if he were setting himself down to die, but he had never felt as alive. FUCK! He could hear his own heart beating, and his temples felt like gongs going off in his head to the rhythymhewanted to screambutsuppresseditto sustain the solitude. the silence .
If he screamed would anyone hear him?
Certainly not, but if something were to happen to him that he needed help, could he call out for help? Was he alone? Was he alive? The questions came to him in a flurry of panic, but soon subsided. The crickets chirped away and Edmond scratched his beard. Had he been down here long enough to grow his beard out?
Sunday, July 21, 2002
Shorty McSouthpaw
must knowfashionable clothing overused phrases i knowingly promise unto it my standing ground your doing a flashpaper promise fake act no promise no lightning no rainclose up: a decayed face lightnin' no rain frame a body hanging skeletal outlines frame work soundbite:hyenas screaming in the distance scent: eucalyptus fallen & dried maple leaves a tornado is on the way
this is ok i took the penicillin. my full body rash has gone a way what luck? its better than a wet one between busts thats f'sho. i never fleshed out that fishwrap, chippy. we'll have krispy kritters lunchtime, but f'now we'se on holidays, son. holidays. ghetto tricknology or technopoly or discographies. ninja star. ninja star. come in ninja star. move in slowly, ninja star. slowly, ever so slowly you shall turn. step by step, bit by bit, slowly you shall turn ninja star. until you stop, and there is the revolution.
in music today guitar great shorty mcsouthpaw shot go-juice straight to his cock. critics say he was a mind blowing pioneer. he is currently accepting applications for being your leader, and they endorse it. he shoved the syringe straight into his shaft. shorty mumbled intimately about the demise of post modern grunge and decided he needed the ole shot in the arm gag, taking one for the gipper, chippy, one for the gipper. kid missed his arm, but shaw nuff hit the mainline. our experts have agree to only shoot the stuff into they cocks hence forward with out no hesitatin' even "its stupendous!" cried the councillour, a shorter stocky balding PhD without credentials as his arm turned blue, crawling away from him, him after it syringe in hand more go-juice mainline it crawls
"Fantastic!"
"I recommend its enemal counterpart! enema go juice makes the sun shinier!" people chanted the year long, and many years there after for his findings.
Saturday, July 20, 2002
I play drums and sing in three bands at the moment. All three are progressing in leaps and bounds musically and creating great music that people actually enjoy! Pictured above is the mainstay of Splintered Tree. Dan Lippincott, AKA Deejay Drunken Monkey, is in the center of the photo and serves as main songwriter for the band. Ryan and Marwan on the outsides also play in Fojimoto. Nice photo innit? Splintered Tree has been around for quite some time. Lippincott is a native of St. Louis and writes music inspired by blues artists like Son House and Blind Willie Johnson, but adds a sense of surreal humour and modernity that borders on punk or folk music from today. He does a song I'm quite fond of that tells the story of how he likes to meet friends in the worst part of the town, cuz it guarantees him they'll be happy to see him. The place? 16th and Mission. The song is called Dark Town, and I get to scream "crack rock!" in the choruses. heh heh.
Fojimoto is going through a growth spurt right now. Upcoming gigs include July 27th (my birthday, so bring presents or drugs) at the Hotel Utah with Priscilla Ederle and John O'Brien. We are also playing a gig on August 26th at the Makeout Room in San Francisco's sunny Mission district, which I am super stoked for.... We'll be playing with a couple of bands we've never played onstage with before, and they are quite good.: The Red Thread and The Papercuts.
Oh, one bit of knowledge to drop on ya:
Dont let the bastards bring you down
Friday, July 12, 2002
Aw heck, here ya go. A taste of fiction without any meaning behind it.
Last Chance for Punchy
Wade, the white trash kid from around the corner brought his pet gerbil, that had a tumour growing out of its eye. Wade loved that little vermin like he loved to skateboard. He would bring Punchy, that was its name you see, in to the cafeteria at lunch time. He told us he'd kept it in his locker during the day. I saw Wade and the gerbil sometimes in the hallway. Punchy crawling around, and Wade making an obstacle course with his paper sacked text books. It wasn't long before we all got to like this gerbil. That is, until an extry piece of flesh began to form off of its eye, ("eww, gross.") Dr. Isley said it was a tumour and that we'd best expect to flush Punchy down the toilet in a couple of weeks... Wade flipped out. We'd heard about this kid who could sing people healthy. I never would have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself.
His singing voice sounded as if he had never grown out of that youthful frailty just before his voice changed. Just like Jimmy Scott. It still housed that slight affectation towards diminuity. Like he had just found out that world was big enough to hurt sometimes. Its a stronger voice than you'd expect once he got to singing, and it turned a pretty girl's head in his younger days. Mostly, folks'd come by to see the little boy, Whitman,who had an angel's voice. As he got older that golden trill of his was like the gospel on sunday. Him and his voice was like a healer in that he'd sing people right out of their troubles. Folks drove from all over to hear the kid sing 'em outta woes. He'd sing 'em into a glorious, heavenly bliss. He would save them from troubles and cure what ails them.
Shirley, down the block and I tell you what... She had her a farmer's wart at the base of her big toe. She would lay in the sunshine and soak that foot in icy cold salt water. That didn't work. She rubbed a special pomous tincture into it, but that didn't work. It wasn't until she heard that heavenly song that the wart had mysteriously disappeared.
And Eddie's Chevy had some muffler problems that went away when he happened upon that boy on his way to school, and obligingly gave him a lift. The boy hardly spoke a word, but allegedly said enough for the engine to purr again. It was an all-out good year as far as the crops were concerned and farmers from ten counties said that it was because of that boy's singing "Peach Pickin' Time" at the county fair.
"We got ourselves a little gold mine!" said his poppa.
"You should consider becoming an entertainer," said his mamma.
"Give him the key to the city," said his neighbors
I figured this kid would be the only chance we had for our poor little buddy, so we brought the gerbil in a cotton ball lined shoe box and layed it at the feet of the kid and asked him to sing a bit for us. Anything, we told him. Sing anything.
"Please give me the box," said the kid, "and I'll do whatever I can."
He took the box and placed it at the base of the dogwood tree in the front yard of Scott Polley's house. The tree was second base during kick ball season. That tree was also one-half of a goal during soccer season. It was also a good turn around for races around the block. But on that day, the tree seemed to be Punchy's last hour. We stood back a bit, Me, Wade and Scott Polley, while Whitman peered closely into the box, singing a light melody that hummed and shined and kind of whisked across the street and into Ole Man Peacock's front yard as he watered his roses catching his attention. Peacock stopped and smiled. He remembered the day his daughter was born, the moment he fell in love with his wife, the night he won at poker while visitingthe cottage his grandfather owned on Lake Michigan.
The song floated through the trees and into Mrs. Hollibek's back yard where she lazily rocked back and forth every day, watching over the neighborhood kids. She was always hollering at us to stay out of her back yard when we only were looking to take a short cut to Pinky's. Mr's Hollibek stopped rocking when her ears caught Whitman singing at our box. She smiled and was brought back to the times she would hike in the Tennesee hills with her dog, Comet. She could smell the fresh mountain air and hear the family from across the way a-laughin like they were right there. The whole street seemed to be paying attention as Whitman kneeled at the base of the tree. The sun shone through the clouds for a minute, and we were transfixed. Everything on Cherry Street stopped. Even the alley cats, stood still, waiting for the miracle.
It was brief. It lasted probably less then a minute. Afterward, we brought the box back to Wade's house, making sure to keep the lid on the box after Whitman closed it up fearing that we might jinx the magic if we looked inside. In the Worrick family kitchen we opened it up and saw a new Punchy. A Punchy without a tumour. It had vanished! We were so excited that we didn't notice how quickly Whitman had left the scene. We were also too excited to notice that punchy had a few new spots on his back. I guess we never looked real close at it.
Monday, July 08, 2002
Oh my hell. look at this movie clip made by the good people at LEGO.
wow. In the words of the great Cheech and Chong, "if the world is comin' to an end, I don't even care. As long as I can have a limo and my orange hair.... And it dont bother me, that people think I'm funny. cuz I'm'a big'a Rock Star and I make a lotta money!" Of course, I don't make a lotta money, and I'm not a big'a rock star. (I'm only half-assed big after all.) But something specifically monumental happened today and I feel like shoutin' it out loud in true KISS fashion. Besides the fact that my own boss asked me to take the day off after the office was closed for the last four days already. And I can't take into the fact that I saw a cool movie on my day off. I spoke with my mother in the sunshine on Vicente and West Portal even. She and I rapped a bit while I watched pretty girls go by in windswept skirts that accented their thighs on a rare clear and hot day without seasonal fogs hanging low to turn this 'hood into fog central. All of these seemed especially important of their own merits, but today, a former editor of Rolling Stone magazine and was featured in Almost Famous yet whom will remain nameless as to protect his identity actually liked, no wait... he loved Fojimoto's record. wow.
Of course, he didnt write anything about it in any Rolling Stone, Nor did he pass it along to anyone at major record labels to get signed to a big's contract... but he did say he was going to put it into his car stereo. Which is always a good sign.
This brings me to a little known phenomenon that my great friend Greg pointed out to me. That drivers the world over can be subdivided into three groups of persons which in turn translates into every day existence. You know how they say you can always tell a personality by the way that someone drives? Same sort of concept. An angry driver may lash out at people when not in the car. A reluctant turn from a slow driver may signify a shyer person, and so on. Greg says that there are three types of drivers: Idiot, Assholes, and Buddies. Each personality can be defined through their interactions with other drivers.
Dig, if you will.
Scenario #1:
You are waiting patiently at a stop light for it to turn green. Just before your light goes green, a jaguar speeds up to cruise through its yellowturningred light. That driver is termed an Idiot. He is an idiot because he could have caused a great big accident and someone could have been hurt. Luckily, no one was and You looked to your left as you saw him coming and muttered to your wife next to you, "Oh, shit, lookit this idiot."
Scenario #2:
You are entering the I-80 from University in Berkeley. Near the race track, you understand. And the College, so there is a lot of traffic, and its always important to be especially safe on the highways near a college. Lots of drinking and driving, you see. Anyhow, as you attempt to nudge your way onto the freeway with careful scooching into the backed up weekender traffic, an SUV of epic proportions makes itself unpassable so much so that you have to back up a little to just not be crushed by its awesome awesomeness. That driver can be seen as a great example of an asshole. Even so, you can shout out the window when this happens, "you asshole."
Scenario #3:
Take above scenario, but the same SUV allows you easy passage onto the freeway, or maybe pays your toll at the bridge (which is said to happen often, although I've never had it happen to me, nor would I pay someone else's toll) instead of barricading you from entering a freeway or any number of places you needed to get to with your car. That driver is yer buddy. Often times, buddies can sense one another and signal with hand gestures, or light honk-honks on their horns in a kind of morse code for the highways and byways of life, "hey, it's me, I'm yer buddy!"
Idiots, Assholes, and Buddies. Learn it. Live it.
We all fit into these categories, so get used to it. We're ALL either Idiots or Assholes or Buddies. Some times we are all three.
Sunday, July 07, 2002
Jazz is Forever. Ray Brown is dead.
Marshall Lamm is the publicist for Yoshi's jazz club in Oakland, and as we sat in the back of the Hush Hush Room last week he dropped a few names. Marshall likes to golf, and mentioned that he and jazz bassist, Ray Brown were hitting the links just days before Brown passed on to the stage in the sky. I was shocked to say the least. My mouth dropped open and I felt weak, tired, and sad.
I've been collecting records for years now, and most recently re-ignited a taste for Ray Brown's fusion of loungey cocktail jazz with hard bop, his amalgamation of funky soul and improvisation. His affable character and plain good natured vibe is a blessing to entertainment today. Hell, his take on jazz was greatly appreciated by deejays and fans alike, and will be greatly missed. He was scheduled to perform at Yoshi's next week. Lamm divulged that John Clayton will be subbing for Brown. Brown "is the primary contributor to bebop from a bassist's standpoint," Clayton said. "We had Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie Parker and Thelonious Monk and there to contribute from the bass chair is Ray Brown. He was extremely important in jazz education, leading a lot of young bass players to learn the instrument."
In his memoir, "To Be Or Not to Bop," Gillespie wrote that "Ray Brown, on bass, played the strongest, most fluid and imaginative bass lines in modern jazz at the time, with the exception of Oscar Pettiford."
He was finishing up a stint at the Jazz Kitchen in Indianapolis and Ray Brown died in his sleep, possibly dreaming of new ways to play his stand up bass. More likely he was dreaming of a hole in one.
Friday, July 05, 2002
For the record, I am a deejay who is into playing the AfroLatin Cubano music that swept the nation recently. Here, in the Bay area, I am known as Jonny Deeper, deejay extraordinaire. Tonite, my cohorts, Vinnie Esparza and Asti Spumanti and I will be throwing down a righteous party filled with Tasty funk Treats and marinated musics for the act of gettin down. For the few who can't make it, I feel for you. You need to stop bein a bitch and come on! But, I understand you may not even be in San Francisco tonite, so I will dose you with a nibble. Without revealing too much, I can disclose a few of the records in my record bag for this evening. I found this great compilation with sounds from the eighties that signify the end of the disco era and the beginning of House music. Its called Classics from the Loft . Great tunes on it, too. Anyone remember Steve Miller's Macho City? Or howzabout the Nervous Track, by Nuyorican Soul? I also will be bringing a re-issued copy of the Oliviera Orquestra record "A Swinging Combination." On the hip hop side of the rails, I packed some Run-DMC, LL COOL J, House of Pain, and A Tribe Called Quest. I especially can't wait for the time to drop Digital Underground's Freaks of the Industry. Aww, yeah, makin' asses shake.
Ah, yes. Tonite, is the Return of Hella Tight, a monthly party at Nickie's BBQ in the Lower Haight district. Its been loveley weather here, and I expect to see a lot of people at the place. Mostly, I can't wait to get on the dance floor myself with all the fly hotties in the joint. Ah, Yes.
Tuesday, July 02, 2002
Hella Tight rocks. Go to Nickie's on Friday, Punchy.
Sunday, June 30, 2002
The air was hazey and the cab ride was a dream. Cabbie behind the wheel had a beret on and the stereo was playing something in French. We crammed ourselves into the car with five of us in the back seat and two in the front. Cab drivers dont like to take fares like that, and we had to con our man with extra cash. Our cups were filled. We'd settled into a fine buzz. I was lucky enough to be seated beside C____, who had a set of legs I'd eyed for years and here she was wrapping them around mine in this orgy of drunken hipsters trying to save some money sharing one cab when we should have taken three. Her frame pressed against me as the car turned tight corners. "Sorry, about that," she said, wincing as we came face to face. Her hair fell into my eyes from a set of bobby pins and I had to keep myself from admitting to her my unadultered obsessions. Good God! Did she realize how many times I'd seen her at a grocery store, on a train, even at the bookstore, without finding the courage to even say hello? Did she begin wearing that particular scarf because it drove me mad, or have I been going mad since seeing her in it? And how many times had I caught glimpses of that scarf in a crowd, only to realize that she wasn't the only woman owning one?
Careening through the city, each turn of the wheel caused us to lose our balance, until her hands rested against my chest keeping her from falling straight into me. Laughing along the way, her toothy smile could have disfigured me for life if we had hit the right bumps, but I wouldn't have cared. This steadying herself, though, was too much for me to take. My heart was beating a million miles a minute, and I started to shake. It would have been hardly noticable, except for these tight confines. This cab ride was holding so few secrets, I could tell how much change she had in her pocket. "Are you cold?" she asked me, "or am I making you uncomfortable?" I was silent as she stroked the crown of my head, hoping to calm me down, but I couldn't help myself from fidgeting. The cab driver rolled down a window to give us some air, and I made an idle excuse about the fog being colder than I was used to. She stared me down until the shaking quit.
Friday, June 28, 2002
I was laid off, and when my boss told me I couldn't rely on my current position as Data Analyst, I immediately freaked out. It was a meager living at 12 dollars an hour, so I hadn't been able to save enough for an emergency like getting laid off. Sure, I'd been looking for a new job. One that pays me what I'm worth and where I can afford some nice clothes or even a night out on the town. But, nothing had panned out. I re-worked my resume. I wracked my brain for days over money-making schemes like selling my body on Polk Street, or harmonica playing on the Embarcadero. I even considered getting to Hollywood and Vine and demanding the uppermanagement of Capitalist Records to hear my new cd, in an unadultered attempt to selling out, which up to this point had been the last thing I wanted to do. Now, on the other hand, selling out in a big way didnt seem so big a deal. IN fact, I already had my eyeliner picked out.
Fortunately for me, I was accepted by the Employment Development Department for an extension on my benefits. That's right, I am once again unemployed and living on welfare. Wherein, I will be pursuing the art of living modestly while sleeping in and writing in my journal and practicing my drums and chasing after girls, possibly hopping on a train and seeing my family (I hope I hope I hope). My bandmates are gonna be stoked because now I can spend my days promoting the new cd. Have you heard it?
While most of my rhetoric may lean towards the anarchic chaos of a punk ethos, I am now proudly hailing the American Welfare system as today's saviour. Thank you, my fellow americans, for working hard and giving me the leniency that an old and in the way musician needs to make ends meet. I promise to do my utmost to become an integral facet of the world. But First, I'm gonna go find a right bar to celebrate this accomplishment and get myself good and drunk. Again, God Bless America.
A new form of political correctness has been reported in the news of late. Its found in the pages of the Chronicle , and its found in Reuters and you'll be seeing it on your television. Quasimoto, the stature challenged focal point of the Hunchback of Notre Dame is being referred to as the Bellringer of Notre Dame in a British adaptation of the story so as to not offend people with scoliosis. What does that have to do with this nice picture of a woman's chest doused with water? absolutely nothing.
I'm so fond of it, tho... I think I will go out and have Bar-B-Cue ribs for lunch.
Monday, June 24, 2002
Familiarity: Anything can happen today, right? Well, sure, I said. See this scar on my lip? I asked him. yeah, he said. This cute girl finally looked at me close enough to see this scar, and I've had it forever. Since I was four, man, and I can't even remember how I got it. I've only heard stories about it. How during my grandfather's funeral, my babysitter had to rush me to the hospital after I bashed my head into a rocking chair. I've always wondered how you can miss seein' this one when you look at me straight on. But she finally saw it.
This reminded my friend that sometimes that which is expected can be comforting. No surprises can be a warm invitation, he mused, like when you know what's for dinner by its smell on the way home from baseball practice and that mom will insist on saying grace before letting anyone touch their utensils. Or the cat's mewing and pawing in the middle of the night which was annoying at first, but once you got to know the cat itself, and how it brings in a caught mouse in the fall, that mewing and scratching was kind of nice.
Cicadaes are kind of like that, he said. Some nights the sound of 'em will keep me up for all the night. Other nights the humming can rock me gently. It kind of depends on the heat of the evening and the humidity in the air. He said this and I was certain a ghost passed right through him. He didnt turn sheet white, like in the movies, but a glimmer of nostalgia gathered in the corner of his eye so much that he winced from it. He looked off into space for a moment.
It was at that point that I stepped into a pile of dogshit.
Aww, man. I bet you didnt expect that! he said and laughed as I stumbled along the sidewalk, dragging my shitty foot in the grass to wipe it clean.
Sunday, June 23, 2002
I've just got a few minutes before I pass out from exhaustion. Fojimoto, along with the help of our close friends (John O'brien and Splintered Tree) put on a benefit to raise funds for the Middle East Childrens Alliance earlier this evening and I'm plum tuckered out. I'll try not to narcoleptically fall asleep at the helm.
With that disclaimer to prelude, I'd like to say one thing. Bad music is hurting the youth of today. Please do not endorse wimpy rock bands that sound every bit like The Goo Goo Dolls only younger. Instead put on your chuck taylors and rock out with yer cock out to Tsar. Those guys are rad. Or, if you are feeling a little S&M you might want to put on a Monster Magnet record and laugh along to the words "Suck the Cock of The Fire God." I did. When you see the little fuckers in that band called Saves the Day or in Dashboard Confessional... punch them in the face for me, cuz those whiney little sucks deserve it. They are personally ruining my day. Do not buy the album, instead go write your own songs, record them on a hand held recorder and send it to me, cuz I need to find something to get their songs out of my musical landscape.
And while I'm at it... have you seen the Hives? Are they as contrived as I think? And why are people so hot about them. I would much rather listen to Delta 88, Royal Trux, Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, or any number of great rock and roll punx. Support true punk music, folks. Its the only way to enjoy your life.This new wave of so-called punk music is like a sack of shit set on fire. Its becoming the next big thing, like Grunge was in 1992. It really sucks. And so does Dashboard Confessional. I hope the lead singer gets into a shellfish accident and breaks out in hives. and I hope that cute lead singer in the Hives eats as much food as their guitarist soon, so he gets all fat and bloated and can't jump up and down and swagger.
Listen To Fugazi. Listen to Buck Owens. Listen to Greg Vaine. Listen to Beach Wood Sparks. Listen to The Mother Hips. Listen to Ornette Coleman. Listen To Joe Henry. Listen to Tsar. Listen to Trans Am. Listen to Audio Learning Center. Turn off MTV.
Wednesday, June 19, 2002
I spend a lot of time underground in the tube on a train between San Francisco and Berkeley these days. The silent humming lulls me into a very serene place. In the morning, business folks in suits and ties shift uncomfortably in their seats, or (if its during the rush at 830 or the rush at 530) stand up straight and narrow holding tightly to a bar above our heads to keep from falling into the persons around them. Rarely do people talk with each other. The train also gives me the time to do character studies and to hone in on what makes us tick... or at least it gives me insight into everyday people doing their natural things. Here's a little anecdote about a man named Finnegan:
Red Faced Finnegan
A man said to me, "Do something great once a day,
and if you do it before noon, yer the man." Welp, I
saw a ole fella hock a loogie that spanned Harrison
today. On the way home from the coffee shop this
morning, I passed a business-ey looking ole chap with
a derby on his head and a red tie flipp-flopping in
the wind as he forged inta-it. His newspaper was held
above him like it was about to rain, but the sun was
out. Queer fellow, if you asked me. I decided to
follow him around to see if my suspicions were right.
Hell, I aint got nuthin to do, and the sun woke me
especially early this morning. I was still a bit tired
and with the sun riseing and the warm coffee I felt a
little as if I were in a dream already. It would take
a while for me to get my bearings, and if this guy
noticed me, or if I happened to get bored at all, I
could bounce back to my pad with no woe. He shimmie
shammied all over the sidewalk between people and
around the telephone poles, weaving through the going
to work crowds in suits and the doing the work crowds
in their carhart pants, covered in paint, or with
garbage. He popped into a coffee shop to get himself a
nice tall Latte, just like mine I imagined.
Eventually, this guy - who I'd affectionately named
Finnegan, on account of his red face, I dunno, maybe
it was too early to tell, but he looked Irish to me,
with his red hair, and face that shone in the sun like
he'd been in it too long the day before red - turns
down Harrison, prolly to get downtown with a suit like
he had on, Versace or some shit.
There's a stop sign on Harrison, y'see? Nobody stops
for long at it. The cars are too busy in the morning
to give a shit, and the people who commute by bus end
up crossing the street together, forming a mob so big
the cars have no choice but to yield. Welp, me and
Red- Faced Finnegan got to Harrison. A crowd around
the curb formed when we did. It always happens just
like I said and at the right moment, when there
weren't no cars in the way, we all bolted across the
street as a group. Red-faced Finnegan in the front,
with his coffee in the air as if he were leading a
battalion toward its nemeses. His hair blew in the
wind and drew his tie outta his suitjacket and into my
face. Man, it was windy.
Once, across the street, the crowd filtered out a bit.
Some folks went south to Daly City, and some folks
went Downtown to their offices and their jobs. All of
us had coffee in our hands. Everyone left abruptly and
onto the hustle and bustle of their Tuesday lives.
Everyone, that is, except me and Finnegan.
Red-faced Finnegan stopped to fix himself and to look
out over the Harrison divide as he had just crossed
it, his hair a tousle, and his suit a bit wrinkled
from a fervent and sizable crowd. And as he peered
across the street which had been overrun with Camaros
and Thunderbirds , Vanagons and Jettas zooming quickly
through the looming red STOP sign. Leaning over and
clutching his lower stomach (I thought he was about to
vomit, but who knew?, He drew in a hocking noise,
probably clearing his entire phlegmey throat back into
his head, it sounded like. He started with a sniffle,
that was rather like the beginning of a sneeze but
backwards into his nasal cavity, as that's where ya
gotta draw that shit could you want to get a good
loogie going. The sniffle became a guttural vibrato,
high up in his head and also somewheres near the back
of his throat, and I knew what he was up to by that
point.
"CCSGSCHH -- CCHH -- CCCCCHHHHH -
CCCHHHSSCCSSCHHCCCCHHHH!" he went, and "CChhh."
He waited a second, maybe two, and "Tha-woop."
He shot a loogie across Harrison that could'a been
some sort of pirhouette onstage during Swan Lake. I am
not kiddin' ya, this loogie was as big as a baby's
head, and flew... no, it soared to the other side of
the street. Finnegan lifted that spit on the
occasional upward stream of the wind that was blowing
so hard in the first place and sent it like a shooting
star into the daytime filth of the innercity. I dunno
if he cared or not, but Finnegan missed every single
shiney car on its way to work, too. I dont think
anyone but me saw any of this of course, but
somewheres along the way I felt like I'd witnessed
that great thing that someone needs to do every day to
be a great man. And shit, he'd done it before noon.
I was only awakening still, and my coffee had gone
cold. Red-faced Finnegan had a job to go to, and I may
have freaked him out by watching him force a snot-ball
ouuta his dirthole. So, We parted without never saying
a word to each other.
Monday, June 17, 2002
I found this banana dancing to some sweet electro. Listen to him do it freestyle, break it down and freeze.
Sunday, June 16, 2002
I tried to stop it, but there aint no way to get the blood to stop once you've nicked your ear. Fuck if I know why i decided to take a pair of scissors to my beard, but instead of trimming it up nice-like, I snipped a piece of the lobe clear off, and a nick the size of a noticable comma was left in me. Blood streaming down my neck, and me without a wash cloth, I quickly grabbed a handful of toilet paper. I'd have to stop this before I continued trimming my beard. The shock of seeing my own blood gave me a start enough to want to sit down, and I did.
I held the paper tightly against my neck and ear, letting the stereo playing sea and cake waft lightly into the air like someone smoking a pipe. Later, after the nick healed up, I packed a bowl and smoked a pipe on the patio. This beard and the pipe in hand, I called my pop up to wish him a happy father's day. I hesitated in telling him about the beard, but when I did he laughed. I'll bet you look like me now! he said, and I didnt tell him I had packed a bowl with his favorite brand of tobacco. Dad wears a beard and always has. I can remember when I marvelled at it when I was too young to even ride a bike without training wheels. After eating a big dinner of fried chicken he would comb it out, and lean down into my face asking, 'Is there any food in my beard?'
Friday, June 14, 2002
Thursday, June 13, 2002
Booze Money
You know what I always say. I aint got much money, but what I got – when I got it - I might as well put it towards booze. That’s made it hard on me, of course, having that as a mantra. What with no job and no intentions of getting one. No one is hiring, at least not right now, because it’s the depression and all. And There aint much for shmucks like me to do but sit around and get sauced. I see at least ten other cats at the same bars at the same time every day. We sit down like ole chums, but I don’t know any of their names. We even strike up conversations with each other from time to time. I like to stare off into space and imagine what it would be like to have a job. I like to imagine the perfect job. I’m certain I can’t get paid to just sit and drink, which makes it difficult to think of the perfect job at the moment, but I’ll struggle with the thought of working and can think of a couple of gigs that would suit me.
I watch the Giants game on the tube above the wall of bottles and the mirror that entices me to wonder how many shots it will take for me to see the mirror images in threefold. I imagine myself as a great baseball player who gets paid in the millions of dollars to play short stop. I’ll close my eyes and I can smell the green grass and the popcorn and the hot dogs. The wind whips about and I stand fearless between 2nd and third base, my cap cocked to the side, keeping sun away from my eyes. I lean forward and pound a fist into my mitt.
“Heeeey, batter batter batter!” I holler at home plate, hoping to set the guy swinging the bat off a bit. I’ve really got a thing for razzing the batter, so I give in to my urges and say some awful things to him about his mother. “Aaah, Whitey, yer mom sucks cock,!”
With a deep breath, as that dream propels me into an alternate dimension, I know nothing truer. My life is satisfying. I can want to wake up in the morning, on account of I aint working to get paid, but being paid for my work. (Leonard Cohen said that. He can write like a mother fucker.) Hell, I might could get a job selling hot dogs in the stands next week, right? I wonder if I would get to watch the ballgame? Oh, fuck it, I can always watch the game at the tavern. That –a-way, I get to drink myself into the daydream and no one cares. I aint a baseball player, anyways, and I didn’t get to this bar for any other reason but to get sauced, like I was saying. So’s I go for the whiskey, which should get me going nice-like.
It’s that one–two punch that hits a guy between the chest and the brain a good slug of single malt scotch’ll send to ya. Warmth that slides on down through the lips and to the lungs. I’ll take it straight no chaser, me. I likes it to have a couple lined up next to each other first off. I can eye the shot at the bar as I choke back the first one right quick, slamming it back into my throat and letting it burn going down. It comes right through the lips like electricity, too. Like a sigh of relief, my chest can puff out and my head jerk can back and forth, shaking as if to say “Oh shit, No,” but its only a reaction to the juice, dig? After that first shot, I can’t believe I went as long as I did without it. My head’s shaking is only a testament to my own drunkardness. And that it tastes as good as it does. Even though I shoot it back without being able to hardly taste it, only to feel the repercussions, I know what it is and I know about the back up, second and blinding shot.
Right away I can’t see so well. That first blast blinds me for a few seconds. I begin to see after I’ve had a few moments to gather my senses. Usually, I won’t know where I am exactly. The earth slips away and I’m all warmth and golden as booze falls down my throat. I’m gone, invisible or better yet…dead, but a likeable death cuz its temporary. It lasts only a short while, than its back to reality. Back to reality from a bottle. That and my time. Its None too nice, this, and I know it. I just wanna put as much makeup as I can onto this ugly world.
Why am I so tore up? I aint different from any other monkey on the street. I can chain myself to a grill and serve up a mean burger, or I’ll pack a load of mail over my back and hump it down street after street, stuffing addresses with junk from direct mail coupon books and copies of Vogue. Hell, I can pick up a chamois cloth and buff Jaguars as they roll through the car wash. I can find me a job, there are plenty of shits I can do. I just don’t like to work. But, workin’ gets me a paycheck that allows me to live and to drink. Its a cruel circle I’ve been tossed into. I dislike working, but I need to work to live. The more I work the more I want to get drunk. The more I drink the more I need to work to pay for my drinking and so on it goes.
My local bartender knows my drinks. I’ll take either a dirty vodka martini, or the whiskey. Whiskey is more expensive, and he can tell by the way my face hangs whether or not I got enough money for that. And he knows when I need the whiskey, but aint got enough money. He’s like a sage that way.
Even though I have the luxury of enjoying my days at the dark end of the street in a dirty bar, hiding from the sunshine, I’m a musician. A good one, too, and I’m meaning to get onstage to knock folks out, but being a good musician never did shit for me. I have to hustle to get paid. Gigs don’t pay much these days, and even if they did, clubs are closing down everywhere. No one’s got any money during this here depression. Sounds like great excuses to hole up in front of a glass filled with clean liquor, don’t it? They say I got brains, but they aint doin’ me much good. I’m like every other monkey out on the street, except that most of the bums that hang out in the joints I go to aint just daydreaming but halfway to insanity, or on drugs, or a combination of the three. The liquor we drink evens us out a bit. Me and my fantasies, they and their drugs, our appetite for drugs and alcohol and insanity all serve as a great equalizer. I’d say we’re trying to make sense of it all, or trying to make no sense of it at all.
Business men and blue collar cats come in and sit next to me.
Hi. My name is Jon. I live in Berkely. It's pretty neat. I like stuff like playing drums and listening to the rain fall on the tin roof of the small gardening shack which I keep in my ear. In this blog I'm going to post my writing. I like to write poetry and short stories, and I'm working on a novel about my childhood. Did I mention I play drums.
Thanks to the best artist and musician in the world for inspiring me to start a blog.
