as jesse and i walked to get coffee earlier today, we, along with one other unfortunate passer-by, got hit by a smattering of bird shit. jesse got tagged mostly on the hand, while i got nailed on the chest, head, shoulders, back and stomach. this sounds like it confounds physics, but i believe i was simply the victim of a shotgun shit.
i've always heard that getting shit on by a bird is good luck. i think i'm going to have to call this bit of wisdom into question.
i'm likely going to see a friend's band play tonight at the same club in which a drag show will be taking place upstairs, and it's occurred to me that these faded white splotches on my shirt look like ... well, you're all adults, and can probably figure it out on your own.
i think i'll be buying a t-shirt to rectify this situation. maybe this is where the supposed luck will come into play, and i'll happen upon a tee bearing say, the likeness of ernest borgnine, as pictured below:
this is no joke. i've been burping pretty much non-stop for the past two days. these are thundering belches, too. i've barely been able to suppress the noise, which has in turn garnered the attention of coworkers eager to heckle (and to hurt).
i don't know what the hell's wrong with me ... no recent changes in diet or anything else obvious that could preciptate this condition. anyone got any ideas? should i go to the doctor?
but if my uncle carlo were a professional wrestler, he would adopt the brawling, cagily rule-breaking persona of 'the bully' (short for 'bulldog', my aunt's term of endearment for him -- don't ask), and would dress like a cross between popeye's nemesis, bluto, and a turn-of-the-20th-century carnival strongman. in fact, he would look exactly like the coincidentally-named big bully busick, as pictured below:
his training would include getting shot in the stomach with cannon balls, log rolling contests and ringing the bell on one of those test of strength machines with a mighty swing of the hammer.
technically, my education in punk rock began sometime around when i was 8, 9 or 10, and i would routinely hear the awesome crunch and unbridled, unhinged swing (yes, there IS that, though you rarely, if ever, hear punk associated with that term, as perfectly apt as i feel it is) of songs like 'beat on the brat' and 'revolution' buzzing though justin's door in muffled bursts, joey ramone and john lennon's voices nonetheless cutting straight-shot through the mix in brash, nasally whines.
i used to sleep with my door slightly ajar, finding comfort in the hallway night light and the knowledge that i could call to my mom if i had a bad nightmare. after a time, though, i found myself drawn to a different reassurance on sleepless nights, a kind of solace, in fact, in the music that justin was perhaps finding peace in himself. i don't know whether it was the very routine in which i derived a sense that things were right in the world, or if perhaps, somewhat vicariously, i tasted some of that urgency that called out to justin and demanded that he listen night after night. regardless, it was a secret pleasure; an experience that i held close to my heart, quietly, as my own.
later, as a teen, i remember one afternoon after school where i was feeling this general malaise (girls; scumbag teachers; thinking that there was no one in the world that could ever understand how i felt) that i chanced upon the video for 'anarchy in the uk' on one of the music stations.
i know i had heard the song before. but it was actually seeing johnny rotten spit at the mic like a man posessed with reckless, wild-eyed abandon, and watching steve jones smirk disdainfully as he laid down power chords like static-singed depth charges, and marvelling at sid viscious sneer and sloppily pluck his bass like he had better things to do somewhere offstage, that made everything click into place for me.
what i sensed in the chaos, even in spite of the fact that it was live footage synched to the studio recording, and what i would later find in other bands' music, was this undeniable truth that held together its sometimes ragged constituent parts. i'm not talking about a literal lyrical truth, like the sex pistols' thoughts on abortion were somehow gospel testament, or that the adverts had a compelling reason to be paranoid about the transplantation of a killer's eyes. what was so much more THE TRUTH in punk for me was that cliched (for great reason) urgency; the undeniable innate sense that this primal verve seized performers and set them into trance; the feeling that this gut SOMETHING fought and clawed its way out of instruments speaking in tongues; the grandest and purest catharsis that struck me so immediately on a reddish, vicseral level with such great force that it left indelible imprints.
even later, i discovered this truth manifesting in other forms of music: in rock and roll's bruised swagger, in the frenzied harmonic stabs of coltrane and davis, in the jagged chunk of andy gill's guitar violence, even in the hypnotic pull of traditional african music make with rocks, sticks and the various wind instruments i learned about from archie shepp in classes at umass (an unabashedly proud accomplishment i hang my hat on, while i shamelessly name drop: being the sole guitar player in a shepp perfomance class with other talented ax-slingers to earn an A).
i became addicted to the bands that delivered such transcendental payoffs in soft and loud dynamics: rage against the machine, nirvana, alice in chains, pj harvey, the dicks, jesus lizard, showcase showdown, tool, operation ivy. the bands that delivered nuclear knock-out punches in the form of volcanic outros in which that ever-present angst and undefinied anomie that lurked in the undercurrent throughout chorus and verse finally simmered to the top explosively. the truth in one orgasmic moment (and here, i will indulge myelf in saying that, yes, i will always hold dear to my heart that a friend once insisted matter-of-factly that i 'have sex with my guitar' whenever she sees me play it).
much of my songwriting these days gravitates toward arranging parts in such a manner as to facilitate those big rock outros. when i mine for such a part, i try to tap into that feeling that i've found all throughout music, but i think that punk music has always articulated in a uniquely ironic clarity through the distortion and the disorder; a truth felt and understood outside of the cerebellum, even as it agitates this brain mass; a truth that acts as something buoyant to hold onto for dear life in times of chaos and uncertainty.
he's campaigning for a seat on the maryland house of delegates. i refer you to the below, an exclusive message i received via bulletin from nikolai himself (i am such hot shit that the vapor stench is now emanating from your monitor, i know, i know):
Message from Nikolai Volkoff
Dear Friends,
I would like to thank you all for your support over the past months of my candidacy and the continued support for the upcoming primary election. It has been very difficult for me to be out every day campaigning in Maryland and keep up with all of your emails, but I have read them all. I do however apologize for my slow response.
As Im sure all of you know, campaigns are very costly. If there is any way for you to support my current endeavor financially, please feel free to do so. A donation to a campaign doesnt have to be a large amount, even $5 or $10 from just a few of you will make a big difference. You can donate your money online at http://www.volkoff06.com/Contribute.html.
Also, if you are in Maryland and would like to volunteer for the campaign, please contact my campaign manager at tim@volkoff06.com.
Thanks again and I hope to get to meet you all at some point out on the campaign trail!
that's the number of times the bus i was on yesterday on my way home to lexington for a dentist appointment overheated and broke down.
from the times i used to commute home when i lived in lexington, i recall that buses i took occasionally had trouble with this one particularly monstrous hill in arlington. it wasn't uncommon that whatever bus i happened to be on would slow to a crawl, the puttering engine impotently grinding out its maximum output, and one got the distinct sense that the driver would start firing passengers off so as to unencumber his strained vehicle of some weight. hell, there were times when the driver would have to kill the engine and restart once or twice just to power through the rest of the way up the hill.
but yesterday, the driver was forced to do this so many times that i deliberately took a mental count.
the bus had to be restarted seven. fucking. times.
i hate the mbta.
and now, a picture of bubba bexley. for those of you in the know: word.
walking through brookline on monday, i chanced on a takeout menu for wings over brookline scuttling along the sidewalk in the gentle breeze. recognizing the font and layout as being identical to the one from one of my favorite old western mass delivery joints, i toed the menu and snapped a shitty cell phone shot for the double purpose of reminiscing and reminding myself that i need to get my ass over to brookline this weekend for a little piece of chicken heaven.
i wrote up a review of the hangar (the name of the sit-down bar and grill that wings operated out of in amherst) for the advocate a few years ago, which will save me from having to go into detail here about how awesome the prospect of having a wings franchise in the boston area is. whether you read it or not, i'll say this: wings makes the best damn boneless chicken wings i've ever had in my life.
joy.
update: it's been confirmed that wings over brookline will be opening on july 21st. the premature release of menus is propaganda of the finest kind. i think i might just have to take a holiday next friday.
last night, i accompanied jk to blink studios in central square, where he laid down basic guitar and vocal tracks to send his bandmates in preparation for recording the new jbg album in ohio later this summer. i'm glad that i got to preview the new songs in this fashion, as it helped me to concentrate on and better appreciate justin's ability to put twists and nuance into vocal melodies when he applies them to his chord changes. he's a great singer, and i think that you'll be surprised and impressed when you hear some of the unique chances he takes.
pretty awesome / i nominate jackie chan for induction into the good team
i caught this bit of news on one of the plasma screens that stream headlines on the elevators at my office. it was accompanied by a picture of chan up on the stage gripping a mic that it appeared he had actually seized from the onstage performer with a boozy grin on his face.
it made me think of dean martin, which is to say that it was pretty awesome.
school of rock - jamming with my friend jamie's son jamie (jr.), my trusty 12-string (brought along at the host's request) and my trusty bueno y sano tee (a second skin to those that know me) at jay's 4th of july weekend bbq.
heart-warming scene, ain't it? what the camera DIDN'T capture was that we were actually smack dab in the middle of an idyllic, pastoral heaven, complete with puppy dogs, rainbows, ice cream sundaes and a host of tiny woodland creatures slowly awakening in a harmonious symphony of tranquil sights and sounds.
speaking of woodland creatures, did i mention that jamie's brother slew a deer and brought the kill over to grill? my first impression of venison was that it's an awful lot like beef in terms of texture and flavor, though there is a distinct, salty-ish (though not entirely unpleasant) aftertaste that hits you seemingly out of nowhere. good stuff, and thanks to jay's generosity, i now have a freezer full of it at home.
briana is a rascal. her brother jesse is a rascal, too, though he thought that this picture makes him look like he's a rascal that's missing a tooth or two.
just to set the record straight, the gaps are a trick of the light, folks. jesse's got an impressive set of chompers.
perhaps it was the venison we all partook in that made them so giddy?
hanging with jamie, a friend from work and one of the all-around best people i know. you might not be surprised to find out that jay's a tattoo artist in his spare time, what with the ample ink he's got adorning his arm, and if i ever, ever settle on an image or string of words i'd like to have committed permanently to my skin, he'll be the man for the job.
jay also happens to be a hell of a drummer. he used to play as a member of tribal wisdom, a heavy rock and hip-hop outfit that set off mosh pits in boston throughout the 90's.
the dude sitting behind jay's head with the guitar is rich, tribal wisdom's old axe-slinger. usually, when someone asks to bust some stuff out on the guitar at a gathering, i find myself dreading that i'll be treated to the full repertoire of Songs That Have Been Deemed OK To Play In Front of Others; unless the person pulls out a tune i've been meaning to learn, i prefer hearing something original, even if it's just a little noodling. otherwise, it just feels too much like we're going through the motions.
well, rich dispelled my worries straight away when he picked up my guit and proceeded to put on an impromptu guitar clinic. unbidden, he started dropping bits of knowledge about voice leading, jazzy chord substitutions and other things i'm just beginning to get the hang of -- his impulses as a guitar teacher no doubt taking hold of the reins -- as i sat and did my best to absorb the music theory and stylistic nuances that his fingers were illustrating at blinding speed on the fretboard. the guy has played guitar for 25 years, and was recently involved in a music project with gary cherone, who himself has sort of implicitly set the bar high for guitar players he'll work with, having sung in bands with two of the greatest guitarists of all time, van halen and nuno bettencourt.
meeting rich and watching him play up close was an unexpected highlight of my afternoon. he's a spectacular musician and modest, down-to-earth guy.
brie holds her new friend jay jr., while jay sr. performs double duty, grabbing my ass with one hand and jesse's pec with the other.
