The Most Useless Thing In The World Right Now: Fucking Neptune
Neptune! Jesus! What a hole! God damn Neptune is one crummy planet! It looks all pretty and words like "cerulean" and "azure" come to mind but trust me, Neptune SUCKS. While I've never been there I've read that the atmosphere is like pure lizard fart and the whole place is just this bubbling crudhole! Take it from me, you're not going to see Ware River Club at Bishop's Lounge if you're on Neptune! Not Saturday, not Monday, man. There's about as much good live rock 'n' roll on Neptune as there was in Rhode Island the week after the Great White Barbecue. Or before, since about 1993.
See, there's no rock 'n' roll on Neptune. Trust me, Neptune sucks. Let me put it this way: number of instances of folks like you and me having a great time on Neptune in 2004: 0.
You want to be in a place like that? Is that what you're all about? Check it out- number of instances of well-executed oral pleasure taking place on Neptune in 2004: 0.
That how you want to live? I don't want to live like that. I mean, I have a great time every now and then here on Earth. When I can Forget for a moment. Usually when I have a great time there's this weird, alcohol taste in my mouth. How ya gonna explertain that? And it becomes more pronounced with each glerbitron of great timeness that accumulates in the Meta Reactor.
How you gonna wrap that up in a bow?
Fucking Neptune! Don't take it from me! Look at the numbers!
Neptune: The Most Useless Thing in The World Right Now.
Wait, never mind- Neptune isn't in the world. I take it back.
Fuck that. I'll take it back tomorrow. Along with everything else. That'll be my Baby Jene Crupus sweepaway for this lovely stupid week.
Neptune: The Most Useless Thing Not in The World Right Now.
I Had This Dream
That it was 1977 and 54-year old Pierre Boulez was playing bass for the Pistols instead of Glen Matlock or the twerpy bloody guy.
I thought about it in the morning for a while until I realized I'd heard both Boulez and Johnny Rotten express a sincere desire to destroy all of our culture's old art and music.
Paul Cook and Pierre? Hanging out at the Marquee? Knocking heads and bustin' windshields at an Arsenal game? Yeah, man. Pierre Boulez squatting in Mayfair and shooting up?
In the dream he kind of sucks because he won't play with a pick; only his fingers which in '77 was sorta wet, like wah wah pedals.
Actually, I made that part up.
Um, I made it all up.
It's kind of funny, though.
I kind of like Pierre Boulez. I would like to see him rock a little, though. He doesn't get the whole rock thing. He thinks pop has a "societal" function rather than a "cultural" one.
And I'm just not necessarily down with that.
Whatever it means.
You know how some people pepper their speech with pauses to create import and it's sort of (O.K. it's very) pretentious?
That's sort of what skipping two lines every sentence is like.
Wow, that's pretentious. I'm a tosser.
Maybe now that I'm sinking lower and lower, I'll see if I can try some product placement on my blog seeing as that's just the most hateful fucked up shit ever.
Deer Baby Lupus
forgive me lupster it's been a week since my last conflection. I have lusted in my heart this week. I have lusted for the TASCAM 24 track standalone desktop digible multitrick. Also I have experienced erectile function for a 1986 Musicman Stingray 5-string. sunburp with pearloid pickgourd. I don't want my '94 Peavey Foundation or my 84 carvin fretless to feel jealous and i'm just mortified by my behavior. You have no idea what we've been through together. And they've stood by me. They could have belonged to a Contender. The stingray is out of my league, too; doesn't know I exist.
Do i exist, frootloopus? Do I? Am I dreaming or is the dream dreaming me? Is the solar system an atom in the toenail of a turple?
If I get horny for digital hardware is that Intelligent Desire?
'kay, everything I said this week- I take it back. Murder as a solution, Colin Moulding being catty, Neddie Jingle being violence, saying good things about "The Soul Cages", saying mean things about that nice man Jerry Springer (hurkkklk).
All water under the bridge. With PCBs.
Rocked some folks this week. That was good. Except the substitute guitar player was horrible. But, hey. Made me play some awful Skynnrd song that was like Am C G for like six minutes. You want to know why people don't listen to live music anymore? YOU CAN'T BE SO CARELESS ANY MORE. IT'S IN ALL OF OUR INTEREST TO BE GOOD AND ENTERTAINING AND LARGER THAN LIFE. OR IT'S ALL GONNA GOOOOOO AWAY. GROW UP, BLOOZFAGS, all of ya. IT'S NOT FOR YOU, IT'S FOR THEM, WHAT'S PAYIN'. IT AIN'T YOUR PARTY. Glack. sportch.
Am recording the Bobby Lightfoot X-plosion (I took out the "Blues" because blues is boring unless it's Blind Lemon Pledge or Yellowbelly or whoever) and boy it sounds good. Hank the South African guitarist is warming to my piecemeal, brilliant, pointillistic production approach and things is settling down. Tracked him with a Twin on the left, a decent Line 6 on the right facing each other, 8 feet apart. On-axis 57 on th' Twin, off-axis 57 on th' Line 6, and dig this- right in the middle, four feet from each amp in my live and pretty basement a nice wide-diaphragm condenser in a figure-8. A CAD Equitek to be precise. Nice, dark mic that. Printed these each to their own track and ended up more often than not just using the condenser track. Lovely. Spacious. Makes ya not want to overdub anymore.
So piss off, Beebee Beulh if you have a problem with me this week. Your kid-molesting henchmen? The ones you smile upon? Fucking assholes couldn't record live guitar if their little child-focused pizzles depended on it. Fuck those guys.
Love you, Baby Ploppus. Have a awesome week and don't forget to put hydrocortisone and vitamin E on those nasty scars.
Oh- I dreamt you were dragging your cross down fifth avenue. What does it mean Jeebus? What's it all mean?
Amen, Bobby Lightfoot
Wherein I Attempt to Minimize Sucking.
When I was doing IT teching in Calerfegnia I went on vacation and left a message on my phone of Butthead saying, "uhhh...we're like, closed or something. Go away."
When I got back my boss hauled me upstairs and told me that I had "an uncanny ability to prioritize my own amusement."
I couldn't decide whether to be mortified or strangely touched that someone had said the most incredibly true and insightful thing about me.
I liked that a lot and I made an impossible pledge to myself to stop sucking. Or to at least suck a bit more philanthropically.
What a disaster. I used to have an exorcism kit with holy water and a Wafer floppy that I would bring when I fixed particularly demonic computers.
What the fuck is wrong with me. That is so funny. Jesus. I used to pull the network connection in the cute girl's office so she'd have to call me. Jesus. Over and over.
I used to take cabling detail and say I was in the walls and I'd blaze home down the 5 to Pacific Beach and make phone calls to radio stations for two hours and then blast back in and do a bunch of hackneyed ethernet connections and drop routers out of ceilings. What an absolute disgrace. And did I not once but thrice use that two hours to instead get into some patrone sours and hit the beach? Days from rock iconhood. Mere days. Did I cash out my 401K and hit the road the instant we kissed the lower reaches of the charts? Paid up the taxes on it, yeah? Right? Out of college money spent see no? Gracious, was that me rocking and rolling in every podunk town from Twaine Hart California to Waterloo Iowa to Jackson Tennessee to dig this- Sylacauga, Alabama- that had a reporting AM station that would play us for payola we could afford? Doing radio shows at seven AM where the DJ is in a shitty mood and you're givin' as good as you're gettin' because you have to do SOMETHING to get people to a gig be it drunken headstands in the town square or having Tourettes on the air. That always helps. Douglas Georgia- we get into town late and of course armed to the gills with fireworks discharge said out of the vehicle all the way into town like IDIOTS.
so we do the radio and we joke about it and shu-nuuf the sheriff calls and dresses us down and we get it on air.
that. that is canny showmanship right there. the beatless got nothing on that.
I went off on the guy in Loch Haven PA because he kept insisting I loved Culture Club and it was 7 AM. If it had been 7 PM I could have rolled with it, helped it into a realm that insulted him subtle-like, but it's tough, you know? As long as you get it on air. You can't have this "what are your influences" shit. You have to steer them away from that. That doesn't do anyone any good. If you want people to listen to your record you have to inspire confidence in them. You can't be stupid and you can't let the dillweed radio weenie control the thing. It has to be in your hands, because you have to be worth listening to. Every now and then there's a DJ that you can lean on, a pro, like Greg Sims at Q102 in Jackson TN. Guy like Greg, you can put yourself in his hands. You can't throw him a curve. You want to do call-ins? Give-aways? Hasidic trivia? Greg put on a demo we gave him of a new song of ours and he played it on drivetime and played it up like an "exclusive" and all that. This guy? Always sewing, sewing. Silk purses out of sow's ears, sugar. He's the Maytag Sewing DJ. the guy in Bowling Green, KY? What a criminal. Oh, my god- it's not that they show every outward appearance of being in a hurry to reach the 27th Circle of Hell, it's that they do it for so little. Dollars. Paper. Paper. They just never give a thought to the unfavorability of the exchange rate in Circle 27.
ha. that's a lungful right there. that's an airborne car. that's fort meade. that's like threading a needle in a pigs eye. that's firewalking. that's a technocratic oath. that's a visit from a flaming sword. that's the red sea unparting on you ass. that's a hard cover edition of Roger's Thisarius.
that's ornette coleman's years with Blood Sweat and Tears. that's what a and looks like. the wild and. finally a picture; indisputable truth. that's the count of monte shristo. The count. The viscount of vismonte viccristo. The viscount visof vismonviste viccrisvisto.
there is a term for this literary conceit. It is: stream of selfconsciousness.
Why is there a picture of Van Morrison on this post? Seriously, I have no idea. I don't even like the guy. He was hell to work for back in Them in '66 when I was one. Guy'd sooner chase skirt than make sure I had a clean diaper for my organ overdubs.
Jesus, The Malarians on the radio. Goodness gracious, the violence we'd get up to. Such excitable boys. There is a tape circulating of us circa 1988, all of us kids, getting into an on-air punchup at WMUA Amherst. Sweent. Mal Thursday three-stooges play-slapped Johnny Tomorrow who dove onto him over the console. Right in the middle of a song. You can't buy that kind of publicity.
In California you need to live near the beach and you need to have a cool pad. You have to be at the beach, playing a gig or in your cool pad, 'cause the rest of it is a Steadmanesque nightmare.
Oh my fucking stars and garters, where is it all going to end? This thing?