The Official Hog Blog
Wednesday, December 24, 2003
just in case yer wonderin there is so much parking in front of the apartment on christmas eve. like fer sure. i could park. move the truck. then park it somewhere farther. and then nearer. i could park yer friends cars too. i could save parking for yer friend. thats how much there is.
Monday, December 22, 2003
The most beautiful sound she'd ever heard was the tinkling of crystal being washed by her kids. There is nothing more a mother loves than the sound of her very own children doing the dishes. Hell. doing the laundry isnt as musical, but what silence the laundry emits... a low humming that could be a fog horn. that could be the train rolling through after midnight, that could be the drumming neverending madness of elvin jones, that could be the wind through the shades, that could be the mumble of the rabbit....
"when we gonna cook that rabbit , hyar?" he asked poking at the cage in the corner, " its eaten enough. Its fat enough. we should eat it!"
The menace in his voice made her wince. The rabbit was old and didnt serve much purpose in these times. Well... no purpose but to eat.... but she liked this rabbit. considered it a pet, even... even after it had bitten her the very first time she saw it, when she tried to pick it up and bring it home, it bit her square in the nose. nope, in fact that bite convinced her it was time to bring it home and call it pet names like boo-boo and punchy. she fed that bunny and took care of it when its nose was too runny and when the winter rains came in she made sure there was a quilt over that cage.
"Aint nobody eatin that thar rabbit," and as if to emphasize her point, she added a very perfunctory, "I know you hear me, Glen."
"Dont say Glen... my name," he said slower,"like I was some kinda retard, Betsy. I know you love this hyar rodent, but we aint et in a long time, and my stomach is about to jump up outta my gut until I start squeezing this lil critter's sweet parts out'a his eyeballs and make him into stew."
Wednesday, December 03, 2003
I learned something today. I learned that jazz bass players have issues with insecurity as much as the next guy. Maybe its because they are part of the rythm section. Mebbe iss becausetey dont have projection like the trumpet got, and them types of things. maybe its just hard to find parking after dark, and if we werent rehearsing.... parking that volvo would be easier.
whatever the case may be, I bet most musicians, no matter when and where you run into them will tell you how hard it is to play music.
difficult man.
And I'll bet its hard in different arenas.
Dig, wont you? I get butterflies going onstage at the Makeout Room, but not when I play at the Utah...
I get Butterflies just thinking about playing in any city outside of San Francisco. but not in blissfield
Does every musician get nervous?
See...... I would like to know.
Cuz, I'd also like to know how them muffuggahs got so bad ass. sho nuff I do. cuz like, I'm just tryin to hold my alongside shit. muffugah try to do some crazy assed solo thats in some augmented key, and bring it up after wars like I knew wat the fuck he talkin about.
shit. augmented key and shit.
I just know that doo was trying to accomodate hisself to feel prolific and shit.
do you know?I mean...
Saturday, November 15, 2003
I took a fat shit today. It was soothing and relaxing. It must have come from the depths of my bowels due to the immmense pizza I had for dinner last night. Oh, the pizza was awesome, yes. It had tomatoes and bacon and feta cheese on it. I watched some television while I ate it, but I cant remember the name of the show what I watched. It was that show on public television where people bring in items they's found in they garage or attic, like dolls and cabinets and plates and records, and get them evaluated by appraisers. One of the items was a handwritten document from Andrew Jackson, and it was worth a hundred thousand dollars. I was amazed at it, for real. I mean, the folks behind the appraisers were peeping over his shoulder just to get a glimpse of it, and when he said the thing was worth that much, I nearly choked on my crust.
I swear that pizza was awesome.
I've got some leftovers I'm gonna eat for lunch today too.
You should'a seen that shit, tho. It kinda creeped around the inside of the toilet bowl like a snake and I felt a like hundred pounds lighter. It was one of them shits that should have been bronzed and set up in a museum or something. cuz it was pure art. I felt like I was Monet and shit. Modern art straight outta my asshole. I was reading the newest Vanity Fair and even though I should have gotten up and left the bathroom as soon as I was done, I just sat there, reading and feeling all good.
I was so proud I wanted to shout at the top of my lungs at the world:
"look at my shit!"
but instead, I just flushed it down, and lit a candle in commemoration. now, the bathroom has none of the stink that should be... nope. just the scent of that candle.
Wednesday, October 22, 2003
R.I.P. Elliott Smith
from the illustrious MTV news dept:
"Folk-punk singer/songwriter Elliott Smith has died, an apparent suicide, according to the Los Angeles County Department of the Coroner's office. Smith's body was found in his apartment, in the Silverlake section of Los Angeles, by a female friend, who took him to a local hospital at approximately 12:18 p.m. on Tuesday."
Saturday, September 06, 2003
It never occurred to me that the loss of my cell phone might harm one of my close friends. I hadnt thought about it until I read about a grisly murder in Oakland. A post-it note was found on the body. Her phone number and the nickname everyone called her, "punchy," was scrawled on the post-it note and she had been strangled with a telephone cord. My cell phone was found at the scene of the crime.
I had lost my phone a day before and still hadnt gone downtown to pick up a new one. Hell, I hadnt even turned the phone off thinking that somehow I'd find it behind the couch, or in a drawer in the kitchen.
Cops descended upon my apartment while I drank coffee and read in disbelief.
"come with us, mr. Miller, you've got some explaining to do." they said and pulled me into the brisk morning fog. I sat at their desks, viciously interrogated, for an entire day.
That was two weeks ago, and I'm lead suspect in a series of murders now. No, I didnt kill anyone. But I am partly responsible. All of the victims were in that cell phone. WHoever is murdering my friends is doing it alphabetically according to my cell phone's directory of the numbers I had stored in it.
I guess my being the lead suspect isnt that surprising.
Punchy's death was the first. Her real name is Anna and she was the first name in the phone. I almost wish I had programmed her in with her nickname. That way, she'd be alive today.
It all started after work on a typical thursday afternoon. Just after clocking out, my co-worker stopped into the liquor store to get us a couple of sodas.
I'll take a squirt, man." I told him and soon I was basking in th sun, carrying on with a delivery man who was on a break before the end of the day.
Vinnie, my co-worker, returned with the sodas and off we went.
I was so relieved from the Squirt, I forgot my bag. Must have left it in front of the warehouse. "damn," I thought, "I hope nobody tries to steal my credit cards." nobody did, but that was the least of my worries.
I work in a dvd store that specializes in genre specific movies from China, Korea, Japan, the UK, and of course from other regions in the world that are hard to buy from. We're an online movie store, y'see?
Most of our movies are kung fu, but we also have a large catalog of horror films. That's another reason I'm number one suspect in this sick serial killing. The murders are similar to the ones on some of the movies I own. Whoever is doing this knows me, and knows me well. I'm being set up in a horrific style. Its sick, but Im somehow intrigued by it.
I could be hanging around with him or her nearly every day.
Friday, August 08, 2003
After years of searching, the support team finally had found the program. Special agent Brandon, whose area of expertise focused on lighting, used counter-intuitive pre-cognition to subvert the program. It's artificial emo-tags, hovering at a recognition rate just below that of the average human being's, were moving at such speeds that it became difficult to prevent it's growth.
A human's field of vision can only comprehend a third of the programming happening on a dily basis, but with the advent of artificially intellectual programming methods, humans began to learn more. As a whole, our race began to experience life at a faster pace. Entire conversations could be had in the matter of a few seconds with the blink of an eye, or the turn of the head. It was like telepathy, in many ways. Children learned with more efficiency. Adults could interact within society with more expediency. It looked like the human race had reached the dawning of a new era. That same era sung in songs from the 1960's. That same era that humanity was searching for since the birth of the computer.
Our inventions were infused with passion to simulate the human experience to a tee. Before creating a computer that could solve the world's problems, we first had to teach one to cry. We needed these programs to understand the human experience for them to work in tandem with our society. Humans rejoiced when our programming reproduced on it's own, and created programming with its own history and mythology.... It found, to use scientific terms, sufficient evidence that it was a living entity.
Essentially, our programs found a meaning for existence. But, within that meaning was the knowledge that man was going the way of the dinosaur and that programs, computers, bits and bytes and all..... were the future of this world, and that man was to be slowly phased out.
Tuesday, July 29, 2003
the fog horn hums a low hum like the cell phone sounds when I leave it on vibrate, except the fog horn doesnt vibrate off of the kitchen table when you called. I loved the message and thought I should call, but its been such a long time..... its been such a long long time.... well, I'm taking my time, I'm just moving on. You'll forget about me....
THere was a great film on AMC with Bruce Lee in it and I wish he'd still made movies today. Jackie Chan is nice and all but he's too affable. I mean, he was in Cannonball Run and shit.... I can't take his kung fu seriously.
Howabout Sonny Chiba, tho. Sheeeeeit. He sticks his fingers in a guys throat to maim him, letting him live, but he got blood on his hands...."say Your prayers," he said.
Tuesday, July 15, 2003
some new music I been listening to:
Tussle - "Elevate your mind"
American Analog Set
Out HUd - on Kranky
and the first Minor Threat 7"
oh, and tons of Gangsta Hip Hop by Scarface and The Geto Boys
Monday, July 14, 2003
are ya bored?
Thursday, July 03, 2003
Crop circles in california have spawned a nation of UFO watchers to gather in the fields of Solano, hoping to find the answers to their mysterious questions.
Friday, May 02, 2003
In an attempt to get healthy, I'd begun cutting down my bacon ingestion. I eat bacon roughly five times a week. Unless I'm feeling particularly spunky... in which case, I'll eat bacon a couple of times a day for like a week or so. I could bathe in bacon, and I'd be fine with that. Geraldo, my deejay friend from mexico who has fantastic stories of donkey sex and midgets dames with breasts as big as watermelons, tells me of the incredibly unbelievable bacon thong, possibly the best invention ever made. I mean, to eat off'a someone else, but not to wear. Think about it.... eating scrumptious sizzling sides of bacon off'a some hot, milky, creamy....
ummm....
I'm getting ahead of myself...
anyhow...
I began cutting back on my bacon.
Stopped eating bacon for breakfast or lunch in a BLT sandwich, I stopped putting bacon into pasta dishes, even stopped getting the fancy italian bacon, what is it called... pruschutta? who the fuck cares, anyhow since I took it out of my diet.
But all of this didnt stop me from eating other forms of pork. I ordered sausage, I order chorizo, I ordered back bacon, cuz it dont come ina slice the same as oscar meyer, I ordered hot dogs, I ordered chops and anything I could find that didnt say bacon. I was eating more pork than I had before staving the delicacy.
Wednesday, April 23, 2003
may I hip you to some new and exciting sounds? m'man.... I say... m'man, you must listen to some of these songsby some of today's masters of the genre called pop music.
I may be the only kid on the block with this opinion, but I believe Evan Dando has made a damn fine album. Its called Baby, I'm Bored. After seven years gone, this ex-lemonhead returns. He's cleaned up, and claims to drink non-alcoholic beers. It once was, he'd record his vocal parts from the floor of the studio on account of him being too high to sing standing up. His voice sounds great on this record, tho. Mellow, like a cool breeze. In the very same way that Beth Orton can wrap a song into her voice like its a blanket on a cold night, Dando writes these ditties so he can emerge from the song. And therein lies the beauty of good music. Its the songwriting. And with the songs he's crafted some perfect pop music that I can't get out of my head. I think you can listen to the whole album on his website.
Oh, and by the way, most of these songs are collaborations of one sort or another. He beds down with Ben Lee, Royston Langdon (singer from Spacehog), and the guys from Calexico.
Jon Brion,too. Jon Brion is a guy who, in Hollywood, is known as the creme de la creme. Who sounds great, but I think his mind for production gets in the way of his performance... that's just me. He can produce records like a mufuggah. He plays regularly in LA's hot spot, Largo. Which is right across the street from the very best Jewish Deli in the entire world,
Canters.
Man, I could have me a sammich, right about now.
Oh, and if yer in the mood for that dreamy, folky lo-fi sound that the kids have been putting out, go get yorself a copy of the My Morning Jacket record called Tennessee Fire. Its so sweet, I want to cry. Especially the song called "I Will Be There When You Die." I swear to God I almost break down and cry.
Monday, April 14, 2003
here is an interesting story about psy-ops. psy-ops means psychological operations. All I wanna know is how Coolio feels about it, and whether or not he's gettin any royalties off of it.
Thursday, April 03, 2003
Greg and Molli stopped in to the Bay Area this last weekend. Here I am with their baby Sean. I cant believe they trusted me to hold on to their precious bundle of love. What an angel. Just look at his cute face!
Wednesday, March 26, 2003
He woke up and washed his face, and unto the day he walked. The skies were overcast and the grass was damp, so a rain must have drizzled its way through the neighborhood a little while ago. He hadn't any money, so to the ATM.
Aaah, he thinks as he pulls his card out. What a relief that he'd been working and can pull money from a machine. Pulling cash leisurely, as were his plans, was refreshing and new, for he was mostly hard pressed for funds. More recently, on the other hand, at the grocery store he pulled out his card to not only pay for groceries but to accept more cash back. What extravagance! And, I'm pleased to say, a pleasure. It was his pleasure to be unconcerned with lack of money. What a lightheartedness we live when food is on the table, when we can afford to buy music or books.
Wow, he thought. I walked in with nothing in my pockets and now I have fifty bucks and these great food items bought selectively from the deli to ensure I have a proper meal of pork and a tasty beverage to wash that shit down. This is great, he thought.
The ATM, just down the hill is on the way to work. He can get to the machine and to the coffee shop for a morning cup of joe before reaching the 8:15 train into the city. What luck, he has a job and enough money in his bank account for these luxuries that are so often left for the lovely, these dalliances of the lighthearted not meant for him most any other day. Spendthrifts can shop in the finest of stores and the middle class sip coffee in their homes, which he so wishes to do. Even to enjoy the rich excesses of the lush life, daydreaming on it as the ever approaching busy intersection that plays host to his money machine draws near.
The ATM, an island that juts out of the concrete like a monolith, begging people to c'mon and spend some of the money it's got. Its an oasis in the desert for a man who has no money in his account, even taunting those who have loads of cash stashed up.
"C'mon," it begs of you, "I've got even more money in here than anyone. I've got so much money that I can afford all of you. I can give you all money. C'mon." It's a C' Monolith.
With an outstretched arm, he touchedthe structure's side lovingly as he whisked around it to fetch some cash, to deposit some cheques. In with his card, he pushed some buttons, the machine beeps back to him in alien computer blips, but just as his cash is to be spat out, the machine does something terribly wrong. It doesnt give him back his card.
Oh No. he thinks.
"The card is stuck inside this machine and its not coming out!" He says to himself, as the machine blips back at him, happily accepting his deposit and that he should retrieve his card and receipt, thank you very much, have a happy day. but this isnt going to be a happy day.
blip get the card blip stuck in the blip blip blip blinkie blinkie its right thereblip goddammit blip with my keys I can blip blip blip if only I had a set of needle nose pliers blinkie blinkie blip blip I could tweak my way into the blip blinkie blip blip machine and yank it out blip blip I can blinkie see it blip blip right there!
beeeeeeeeeeep. blink blink blink.
"Thank you for banking with us" and the card was gone.
"fuck that." he says aloud. " give me my card you fucking piece of shit machine."
blink blink blink blink and a bus roared on filled with people in suits and ties with briefcases filled with papers that are very important to someone. someone who has a card just like his. but with probably more money in the bank.
With fifteen bucks in his pocket, he took the day off, went to the hardware store and found a gas mask on sale before heading downtown to the bank.
Friday, March 14, 2003
If this were my job.....
I'd be willin.
Thursday, March 06, 2003
I'd began separating my records into two piles. One pile was filled with the vinyl I didnt need, didnt play, didnt listen to at home, but had some sort of personal relevancy. I may have bought it while ion vacation at a record store in Boulder, or the LP had a song on it that reminded me of the days I lived in a single room studio in Oakland, just me, C-Bo and a big-assed rottweiler named Arlo. The second pile was filled with records I knew could make me money, and that I could live without. That is, I chose a pile of records that I listen to, maybe frequently, but that have some sort of value to the few record stores thgat buy from my collection. IN the second pile were albums by Godspeed you Black Emporor!, a Ramsey Lewis plays the Beatles LP, possibly some of my Clash records or Iggy and The Stooges records. Oh, and Blue Mitchell, too.
I took the first pile and loaded up my backpack, until completely filled, hiked up Telegraph to Amoeba. Bean, a messy-head asian guy with a thin chess king jacket on, studied my records keenly... poring over each side, looking for scratches, extra dust, or even the remote smudge of human funk from these my hands which are conitnuously scratching a head of unwashed, unkempt hair. Seeing my copies of Nappy Roots, or the ealry New Edition amongst soul singers like Renee Patterson, he smiled.
"You take better care of these records than most folks that come through here," he said.
"Yup," I said," and I wouldn't be selling these to you today if I had enough money to pay my rent. I spent most the afternoon carefully listening to these records and making sure I was prepared to let them go."
He stopped to look up at me and I can only think he recognized me to be a stand-up kinda guy. I dunno, maybe he saw a copy of thge Sun Ra album I always listen to when I'm stoned and writing in my journal, or he saw the Ben Lee 7-inch that everyone I know has three copies of, only on account of the massive free promotions Capitol records threw at people.
"I buy used records here all the time, I said," and I'm stoked when I find used copies in great condition. These records move effortlessly through people's lives, and in doing that... I'm selling these, but Its like passing down history, man. And I dont want to pass on junk. I wont take junk, eiether, and that's where it's all-good. So, I hope some kid finds that record and jumps up and down like I did when I first got turned on to music, turned onto music like it was the breath of life, you dig?"
He got that, and put his face back into my records.
Tuesday, March 04, 2003
I wonder what the hull of those carrier ships look like. The ones with all of the military personnel in'em. The ones similar to the big ole ships that haul just about anything else, except more menacing. Bigger, and scary. Scary like the way UFOs would look if Aliens were intent on blowing the whole shebang, turning the world into a ball of fire.
I imagine the big ole ships are filled with scared young men and women right now.
These ships are so familiar to me....
Oh, I think I understand.....
they remind me of the big ships that hauled Africans to America, turning an people into slaves.
Friday, February 28, 2003
I havent been one to stand up and scream about too much these days, but something that strikes a nerve with me is going on right now. Ashcroft, whom we can refer to as one of the most dangerous men in the world, has re-ignited the hysteria surrounding the use of marijuana. This past week, manufacturers of glass pipes were subjected to an early morning raid (set in tandem to prove a point) wherein men and women were handcuffed in their pajamas, bank accounts were frozen, and merchandise was immediately seized. Tommy Chong, you remember him, was one of the many folks who had to endure these humiliations.
I want to know what happened to Prop 215.
I want to know how I can re-count the vote. We said hey we want to smoke pot, and the guvment said, nope. We dont give a shit what you want.
Why is this? Mebbe its because the american guvment cant control the distribution, growth, sales, and potential benefits of reefer. Thats all I have to say about this, on account of I havent had a cup of coffee, yet....
Remember, in Vancouver the grass laws are totally different. (Vancouver in 2004!)
Oh, one more thing. Here is something fucked up, and something you may be able to do about it:
Chhom Nimol, lead singer of a popular local Los Angeles Cambodian rock band Dengue Fever has been arrested. She was apprehended during the "code orange terrorist sweep Friday February 7th returning home from a concert in San Diego. Chhom Nimol is being held in an I.N.S. detention center in San Diego. Our efforts now are to keep her in this country with her family and friends...lawyer fees are expensive and her bail was set today at $20,000.
We have planned two events, a fundraiser/party on Thursday, February 27th at the Short Stop bar, 1455 Sunset Blvd. 9pm- 2am. free admission, donation. And a benefit concert featuring the Radar Brothers, Whisky Biscuit, Brazzaville, and special guests on Sunday, March 2nd at the Derby nightclub, 4500 Los Feliz Blvd. 8pm-2am. $10, plus donation. for more information please email us at denguefever23@hotmail.com.
Finally, lets all watch out for each other. Spread love, spread peace, speak your mind, dont let fear set in and turn you into a mindless robot. People everywhere are here to help each other.
Wednesday, February 19, 2003
Overheard in the tavern
"I've always loved the sound of ice cubes hitting against the walls of a highball glass and the gay fizz of carbonated water..." his voice trailed off and the parade of revellers shuffled through the bar at near midnite. Passing by in the street a voice is heard singing aloud as if in a cabaret, "Its those big-breasted beauties and large-chested lovelies..."
Steady Roller: "Hey, I think I know that guy."
Hemp Daddy: "oh yeah?"
Steady Roller: "Yea, I once beat him like a dog."
Hemp Daddy: " Hold on!" (hands against the breast pockets of Steady Roller who braces himself from falling off'a the stool and makes fists like he's ready to fight)
Steady Roller: "What was that?"
Hemp Daddy: "That was... oh man... I think I even heard it out in the cornfield a while back, but now... it just seems so close."
Steady Roller: "What was it?"
Hemp Daddy: " Listen... Its Ham's Murmur."
(Enter SR's ole lady, a redhead, big legged woman. She shimmies up to him like she was fitting herself with a fur coat - slow and luxuriously. She is high.)
Steady Roller's Ole Lady: "Lets just go on home, all of us, lay in a big heap and turn on the television so I dont have to listen to your bullshit." (jabbing finger playfully into Steady Roller's barrel chest.
Sunday, February 16, 2003
Wednesday, February 05, 2003
The California EDD reports that in December of last year 1,165,000 people were unemployed.
An increase of 10,000 for that month.
That may seem like a small number to the powers that be, but to the folks who try to make it
day to day this number is more than a statistic. And to us, its huge.
Numbers can be misleading, except when the number represents the number of times a child gets
to eat during the course of a single day. Consider the parent who forgoes eating so their
child can have a single meal.
Or consider the healthy adult with dreams of owning a house, or investing to build a bright future,
but can't for lack of a job. His daily routine of awakening to fewer and fewer opportunities that
may challenge him, and instead of working in an engaging, learning and growing experience, sacrificing
his integrity to be able to pull a paycheck enough to get his taxes paid. Even still, living under the gun....
preparing for the day he is unemployed again.
This is a mean old world, and all the proponents for military aggression to route out terrorism
have settled on a different sort of accounting.... their numbers are building on the borders of our
alleged enemies. And I have to find new ways to get hired. I may be serving you yer hamburger
from behind the counter of a McDonald's soon. And where are my freedoms, then? how has taxation represented me?
Things Heard Saturday Night Dec. 30, 2000
"They were like two puppies, panting in the night."
"She's all fuzzy about the cuffs."
"Give me some good squirt."
"That's like... forever yum!"
"I'm not gonna bend down and slouch. I just won't do it."
"You about a ghettohead."
"That strikes me as very Fojtikian."
"Mr. Whitefolks. Talkin' bout Mr. Whitefolks."
"Do you have gravy commitment? Have you made a commitment to yer gravy or haven't you?"
"What up po' boy."
"Baby, if you don't like my peaches, don't shake my tree."
"Good booze... bad Foji."
Saturday, February 01, 2003
Thursday, January 30, 2003
I got my lid chopped last night, and man....I'm ready for the world.
Someone give me a job! I have an interview with the SfZoo tomorrow and I may be thenext monkey house manure remover. sweet, right?
Wednesday, January 22, 2003
Are you hip to this record?
I bought it through the suggestion of my good friend, Vinnie at the Groove Merchant in San Francisco. But you can buy it at Dusty Grooves, out of Chicago via the internet. The record melds perfectly the sounds of cool jazz that was coming out in the early sixties with an afro-funk, reggae tint to it. Go buy one.
Wednesday, January 15, 2003
Friday, January 10, 2003
Awrighty, kids... gather round the stage lights and lets listen to ole Hog give you an ear tug, cuz today is one'a them days when I seent or heard enough about marketing and commercialism and I read enough bad record reviews to have to say something about it... so, if you know any of the names that have not been changed to protect shit, well let em know ole Hog aint such a bad guy, he's just incensed. Besides, any publicity no matter how bad or how unimportant the writer is.... is good publicity.
Have you pulled in close enough? are you wrapped up ina big blanket to hear Uncle Foji tell you the tales that make yer heart stutter, make your ears hot, and make yer asshole itch? I'd like to begin with a few things about ideas.
Good ideas come once and a while, but bad ideas are everywhere. Take for example, canned vanilla coke. Mass-produced for your drinking enthusiasm, and curosity as the ads have made you believe. But I'm not so curious. No, I'm not curious about it at all, for I know you can't create a coke and vanilla mixture with just enough of each syrupy flavor without the help of an honest to goodness soda jerk. Can you remember the soda jerk? Had you the leisure of such a thing? He was the guy at the soda fountain who had a number of levers and spritzes and whips and canisters, and tricks up his sleeves, that were eloquently rolled up to about his elbow....
Coca-Cola has attempted to buy into the Americana that is the soda jerk, canning it into a marketable proposition, even going so far as changing the identity of what it is to enjoy a vanilla coke. I can remember the fizzey softness of the first sip of it, biting at my nose. It was better than sneezey Vernor's. And a cherry coke was just too sweet. But, this charade... this facade... this foolish mimicry of the original is outlandish.
Augh. Coke makes so much money anyhow, they kinda rule the world. Dont they?
So, I guess in ruling the world they can do what they please.
Are you still with me, here? I know... I know... I aint makin much sense, but bear with me, cuz I'll tell ya something....
This coke phenomenon's affect on culture trickles down to the fringes of society. It trickles into the parts of our culture that seem to be counter culture, but it aint and dont let any hippy, punk rock bullshit fool ya...
For example... This new rock thing that is going around with the kids today... Hot Hot Heat, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, The Rapture, The Hives,Interpol.... These are all great bands... well, they aint all great, but you get my point that each has talent of some kind, or at the least, something redeemingly entertaining. Each also has a flash in the pan image. That is, they have images.... branding, so as to create a connection to their listeners. Okay, maybe I'm losing you, but dig..... here is a correlation with the way that the "counter culture" seeps into our mainstream and by doing so invalidates said "counter culture."
The Hives wear skinny ties. Avril Lavigne wears skinny ties.
The White Stripes use specific colors to differentiate themselves. Stryper used colors to differentiate themselves.
( Stryper was a hair metal christian band in the 80's)
SEE? Do you see? Cant you? Please say you do.
These examples are few, sure... but it goes without saying that this commodification of culture even affects the Bay area indie scene. There are bands out t here that wish to capitalize upon the new rock thing as much as the major record labels want to capitalize upon Justin Timberlake's taut tummy. As much as they want to get Ben and J-Lo on camera together do we want to see the cameras pointed at San Francisco. Take a look at the cover of a magazine one-time... it says "San Francisco Rocks."
It does, really, San Francisco rocks so I cant deny that part of it..... but do the bands they've featured rock? Or do they only look good in vintage clothes and pouty poses. Rock and roll is volatile, and rebellious. It looks like the only thing SOME local rock bands are rebelling against is cold and foggy weather, talkin' about keepin it real but wearin' shorts on the ocean front.
Its great exposure and all the magazines want to talk about is how cool the sounds are and that the fog is inspirational and The Rolling Stones are SO influential. And Pink Floyd were misunderstood. Who the fuck cares if anything rocks if it dont mean shit? Sure, I'll shake my ass to it, or I'll bang my head cuz heavy metal drives you mad, but who the fuck cares? I think San Francisco bands need to de-construct themselves to fully access the potential of this moment in time. Break it down to build it up again. And we need to create noise that makes more of a ruckus...
Wars, unemployment, pollution, crimes against children, crimes against the elderly, gunplay in the ghetto, business folks screwing the public, political luminaries trying to control the world....
I guess we could argue the state of fashion...
I guess we could deliberate the importance of the mullet...
I guess we could play disco...
I guess we could paint our faces like injuns...
I guess we could eliminate the bass player...
I guess we could learn the dance moves...
I guess we could add a deejay to the mix and have him scratch ill beats....
fuck, I dunno.
I guess I'll listen to Sam Cooke.
Wednesday, January 08, 2003
"I'm not sure why it looks like this," I said in a half drunken stupor, squinting my eyes against the blinking lights of North Beach, "but Merry Christmas anwhose..."
I leaned into James, caught myself on his shoulder with one hand before falling off'a my stool. Tis the season to be jolly, I guess... and James and me aint had the money, nor the gumption to spend it with family. Augh, it was better in a bar anyhow. I got me a great big check for 80 dollars to spend. It was a bonus cheque from the office. The office gave it to me and told me they had enough work through the year, but not for me, and I was being laid off. Thanks alot. Layoffs always look better through a martini glass, or through the copper tones of a neat single malt.
I've become quite adept at dealing with the startling rush of emotions that come with a layoff. It happened to me a few times in the last year, but never before the holidays. Never during a time reserved for sugarplums dancing around in my head, a jolly ole saint nick looking to bring me the newest contraption, eggnog and rum served near a roaring fire, near a library of books with hours and hours to peruse and pontificate over. I dont know who I'm fooling. Anytime I get laid off is a pain in the neck. This time, though, had nothing to do with insurgent behaviour. I was always on time, and I had always procured the finest of work from my day, making sure that everything was filed properly, everything was collated accurately. My dress was always casual, but dressy, and my shoes were never, ever sneakers. Nope, this time I was laid off because they built a machine that could do my job ten times faster and, according to the firm's research, more accurately.
I paced back and forth in my cubicle when I found out, just a few days before Christmas, which is to say I paced four feet, then turned around to another four feet, and so on....
I did that for a good twenty minutes and Charlie Parker played on my radio. Helps me to think. Not like Coltrane helps me to think. Coltrane sounds like the howl of an oncoming train in the subway, each train another escape route, getting me outta the hustle and bustle of downtown and into the dirty streets of the Mission and into night clubs filled with music and broads and good liquors. Bird, on the other hand, is more frantic. Like the crowd boarding the trains, struggling to get on, quickly, quickly and tight so tight that bodies are pressed uncomfortably against one another, blue collars curse at white collars for stepping on toes, and women clutch their purses for fear that shifty kids might steal some of their shit.
Monday, January 06, 2003
