oozing substances

It turns out that at some point, I kept a dream journal. Here's an excerpt:

01.29.2005
I dreamt that I was in New Haven, at Yale again, only this time the quad that Explo was in (the same quad as before) was much larger, and the buildings were much bigger. It had a much more urban, and less closed-off feel. On one side there was this hall that was for the arts, a big two-story building with spiral staircases on either side that lead up to the second floor.
I started climbing one of the spiral staircases, and discovered that the steps were as high as my chest. On top of this, the part of the step that should be level was at a steep angle, so climbing this staircase was more like climbing a mountain. There were lots of people casually walking down the steps, but nobody going the same direction as me. Difficult climbing.
As I got closer to the top, there was a groove in the stairway that looked like it would offer better leverage for climbing, so I kept trying to get in it, but there were all of these people on bicycles going down the groove at breakneck speed and almost running into me. I narrowly averted being run over by bicycles a few times before giving up the groove and settling for climbing the hard way to the top.
When I got to the top, instead of being on the second floor of the building, I was just outside, on a road, with town to the left of me and the quad from which I came down a level on the right. Like I was on the second floor of the town, or something.
There was a fenced-in lot at the end of the road, and I just jumped over it, floating through the air until I landed softly at the other side. This happens to me a lot in dreams, this jumping extraordinarily high and then just floating to the ground, not flying exactly, just gliding.
The path goes into the woods, and there's a cat inside another fence. Like a mountain lion or something. It talks to me, talking about how it had more food and space to live before we developed the whole forest, then jumps over the fence to attack me. I jump into the air.
So I find myself in the air battling this cat, swatting it whenever it comes too close, only now it's not a cat, it's a stuffed animal on a string, waving around in the air like it was tied to the ceiling, only we're outside in the forest. And instead of a normal stuffed cat doll face, it's got this stuffed doll version of a bloody mess of a clawed-out, shredded-to-pieces face. Like it had been attacked in the face, but a stuffed animal. Like somebody had designed a stuffed cat to look like it had had it's face chewed off. Then the dream ends.

What do you think that means?

I watched that movie Art School Confidential last night. I watched it so you don't have to. Let's just leave it at that. You don't want to watch it. At least, you don't want to watch it if you like artists, or art school, or people, or art. If you don't like any of those things, you'll identify with Terry Zwigoff, who made the whole movie seem like he had a grudge against artists, or maybe just people. I've never seen so many vapid, unmoving characters all on the same screen vying for my attention. I don't normally scoff out loud at movies, but there was some scoffage. Maybe Boston's getting to me. Steve Buscemi was allright, though. I guess.

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interweb friends shout out! plus selling not telling

I'd like to take a moment to give a shout-out to Lindsay for being my one and only friend to link me on her blog, and be both my friendster and my space friend.
Awesome, Lindsay, awesome.

In other news, it's always a bit sad to find out that the media institutions you love exist not to sell you news, but to sell you to advertisers. Click on a "media kit", such as The Weekly Dig's Media Kit sometime, if you want it proven to you that, no matter how totally independent it may seem, if it's got advertising, it's all about selling, not telling. Yo, gotta make those dollars somehow, and it's not like they can just sell it on the street. Unless they're homeless, in which case, they can try.
I love you, Dig, but I sometimes get the feeling that you don't love me the same way.
Visit The Advertising Age if you want more proof that you're so much catlle to be prodded.
Moo!

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Pinback

UPDATE (05.09.2006) If you were so curious as to want to know what Pinback sounds like live, it looks like Bradley from Bradley's Almanac was at the same show I attended, and even made a recording. Good for you, Bradley.

I went to see Pinback last night at the Paradise Rock Club last night. Pinback is officially the only band that I've seen more than once, and with good reason. Not so many bands rock as solidly as Pinback. They have layers, man. Layers! Their bass player is an entire band unto himself. If you're used to their studio stuff, the live show will come as a bit of a surprise, because they play everything double-time and up an octave from the albums. What that means is harder, faster, louder. It's a great show.
The Boston show was a bit different from the last time I saw them, which was in Minneapolis (which is the city. Minnesota is the state. Minneapolis, MN.). The main difference between last night and the Minneapolis show was that in Minnesota, nobody felt inclined to try to fight their way onto stage, hijack the mic, sing so loudly and poorly that the band has to quit playing, stage-dive into.... nobody... then get carried outside by the bouncer. Somebody did feel like doing that last night, though. I'll say this: don't try to fight a bouncer. They want to hit you. It's their job.

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Phone Update

I got a new phone number. If you didn't get the email, then woops! Send me an email, and I'll give you my new number, if you so desire.
There was a gigantic Jamaica Plain party today about five minutes from my house. Three stages. All sorts of sweet bands. Activism. Puppetry. Good food. Jamaica Plain is truly the best part of Boston. Maybe later I'll feel like saying more about it. It's just that I didn't want this post to be entirely about my phone. Lest you think I was obsessed or something.

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The Royal We

As I mentioned before, I've been pretty pissed off with my cell phone plan. It's Cingular, by the way. I don't like them. Let me say that again: I don't like Cingular. They suck. They are not raising any bars. Their rate plans are from the 19th century. Why do we pay to receive text messages? Why do we pay roaming charges? Boo. And by "we," I'm naturally referring to the royal "we." That's me. I'm the royal we.
So I'm shopping around, on the Nextel site, you know, because I see people on the bus with their walkie-talkie phones and I think, "That could be me. Here I am stuck in the last century with a phone that only I can hear, paying through the nose, when I could have a ruggedized bright yellow conversation that let the whole bus hear my weekend plans."
Aaaaaaaanywhoozlebees, I'm shopping around on the Nextel site, and this chat window pops up. "Jessica" asks me if I'd like any assistance. As it turns out, I did need assistance, because the chat window popped up right over the information at which I was trying to look. It's like if you were in a real store, and a sales rep tried to stand between you and the rack. "Would you like some help viewing the MP3 player that I'm blocking with my body?" So I asked her my couple of questions, and she responded pretty quickly. I was, like, all won over. It only took a couple of seconds for me to be totally impressed with Nextel's web site. I mean, there's personal service, right there on top of the page I'm trying to view. Personal service in bed with my browser!
Of course, it wasn't meant to last. Within two minutes of getting me in the chat window (during which time I'd already told her my life story), "she" (by which I mean Jessica) started getting really antsy about me having not purchased anything yet. "Which cell phone plan would you like to purchase today?" Whoa, Jessica, I mean, we're just getting to know each other. Don't you want to chat for a while first, establish some emotional boundaries. No. Jessica wants hot capitalist action, and she wants it now. Not to sound prudish, but that kind of aggressiveness kind of turns me off. So I decided that I'm just going to go to a store and talk to a real human. At least there, I can give subtle visual cues (like snorting in disgust) when salespeople try to get in my wallet before I'm good and ready.

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More Soccer! (from Sam)

Here's some more, from a friend in St. Paul:
All-Twin Cities edition: The Hang Ups vs. The Busy Signals.

No Neck Blues Band vs. The Stranglers
Super Furry Animals vs. Echo and the Bunnymen
Hum vs. The Static (experimental noise rock from the early 80s or so, I've never actually heard them)
Heads and Bodies vs. The Dismemberment Plan
Cypress Hill vs. Julius Hemphill (Cypress Hill might as well be Hemp-hill... they like weed)
X vs. The Ex (winner plays XTC)

Very nice, Sam.

Also, there's a couple of bands that I've run into on MySpace that are fantastic. Kawaii is Norwegian, and they have a nice happy group-oriented sort of sing-along style. Marching Band (formerly known as Second Language) are Swedish. They're nice guys. They're kind of Kings of Convenience meets American Analog Set. Only not so American. Because they're not from America. They're from Sweden.
Annnnd, I'm spent.

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More Soccer

Explosions in the Sky vs. I Am the World Trade Center
Randy Newman vs. Will Oldham
The Channels vs. TV on the Radio
Animal Collective vs. Super Furry Animals
and so on...

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New Track

I've posted a new track over at latiflearned.com. The alert among you may note that the band name contained in the MP3 is the Undertones, not Latif Learned. That's because this song just isn't so very Latif Learned. But I hope that you like it anyway. It's an awful lot more pop-song-like than my other stuff. New influences and all. I'd like to say that it's Elvis Costello-influenced, so I will. Sort of like how Stephen Merritt says that he writes a song a day. That may or may not be true, but he said it so we believe him.
It's also available at Seasac Records. Also for free. Because that's how we rock it, folks. You can't turn down free music. But you can turn up your nose. But you can't pick your friend's nose.
Or can you?

On another note, I've discovered that, in addition to the narcissists out there, there are decent people to be found on Friendster. The word is still out on MySpace

frantster

Are web sites like Friendster and MySpace creating a narcissistic society, or just a symptom of it? It seems to me like a lot of interactions on these social networking sites are meant either to up one's own profile so that one looks better for strangers, or to satisfy one's itch for social ego-stroking by fulfilling the need for recognition. Why would you write somebody a testimonial? Because you want to get one back. Why would you send somebody a "smile?" Because it means that they're bound to write you something, even though all that you sent them was a

:-)

These sites are a perfect way to get a constant stream of minor personal validations in the form of brief messages from total strangers. I've gotten some interesting thoughts from strangers about my profile, or whatever. What bothers me is that the interaction never goes beyond one message in either direction. Nobody ever wants to meet in real life, or even email. It's fine to talk to strangers, but risking meeting them in real life is just too much to bear. There's too much potential for it to turn into an interaction that actually takes some effort. And heaven forbid that you're actually interested in the person you meet, because then you'd open yourself up to being potentially vulnerable to them, which is the biggest faux-pas of them all.

In other news, my phone bill is astronomical, so if it seems like I'm avoiding you on the phone, it's not you, it's just that it costs me a ton of money. I'll change it this month, if I can get my shit together. My shit has not been entirely together lately, so it's kind of up in the air whether it'll actually happen. At any rate, I'm not avoiding you, I'm just avoiding bills. Don't take it personally, right?

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De Facto Dating

Being single is a bit of a wash, if you're not the dating type. Say, for example, you meet somebody at a party who is interesting to you, and seems to be interested in you as well. Naturally, you want to do is get to know them better. You have no idea, from your initial reaction, whether or not they want to get you into bed or whatever, but you'd like to hang out beyond the party. You exchange numbers or emails, because that's the only way you're ever going to get in contact again beyond the confines of this party.
So there you are, person not interested in dating, and you've scored somebody's number. This is the rub: you can't not go on a date with this person. Oh, you'll say that you just want to hang out, have a beer, or some coffee, maybe go to a movie, maybe walk around Jamaica Pond. These are things that people do for fun, you tell yourself. But they're not things people do for fun with strangers. They're things that people do on dates with strangers. You're dating. There's nothing you can do to help it, except never try to contact anybody of your own free will again.
Well, maybe there is a way around it. You could do some seriously mundane things, just to get some chatting done. Like, nobody's going to mistake going and getting groceries for a date. Or, like, doing bike maintenance. Or perhaps shopping for new socks. You know? I think the next time I meet somebody interesting, I'm going to see if they want to go sock shopping with me. That oughta clear up their motives nice and quick.

Latiflearned.com - In case you haven't figured this out, I am Latif Learned. Go listen to my tunes! Purchase my album!

Rock Star Soccer Matches

A long time ago, back when Oasis and Blur were still competing for who could be the lamest, the two bands had a soccer match. Blur won, of course, but it was Oasis who went on to be the lamest. In fact, after that point, Blur started to release their best material. At any rate, it got me thinking: what other bands would have some awesome matches, based on their names? I got my friend Alex in on it, and here's what we came up with (thus far):

(From Alex)
Cat Power versus Cat Stevens ( she'd get distracted and wander off the field )
Bright eyes v. the Flaming Lips ( bring your sunglasses )
the Microphones v. the Sounds ( a cooperative match )
The Yeah Yeah Yeahs v. Clap Your Hands Say Yeah ( loud game, very emphatic fans )
Chavez v. Gonzales ( not to be confused with a family fued )
Postal Service v. the Lettermen ( at halftime, covering that song by the Marvelettes )
Spoon v. Cake ( don't think too hard about this one )
Calexico v. Califone ( mostly because I always mix up their names )
The Gin Blossoms v. the Wallflowers ( for gardening fans stuck in the '90s )
The Faces v. the Shins ( the same league as Bright Eyes, Flaming Lips )
Grandaddy v. the Strokes ( A life-or-death game, ha ha )
The Pixies' Frank Black versus Jack White, while Jack Black referees.
The Cars v. the Streets, and the winner plays Pavement.

(From Donald)
Jurassic 5 vs. Dinosaur Jr. (no contest)
Portishead vs. Radiohead (Helmet does security)
The Sixths vs. The Six Parts Seven
Of Montreal vs. Boards of Canada
The Magnetic Fields vs. Iron Maiden (that's bound to be good)
Arab Strap vs. the Sex Pistols (gross!)
The Jayhawks vs. the Black Crowes
Soul Coughing vs. Soul Asylum
Happy Apple vs. Blind Melon vs. Lemon Jelly (A three-way)
King Crimson vs. Ultra Orange
Modern Skirts vs. My Morning Jacket (I have this problem all the time)
The Super Furry Animals vs. Tortoise
The Black Keys vs. The White Stripes (that's a good match)
Air vs. Earth, Wind and Fire (Hot Hot Heat gets to ref)
...and you know who always wins when it's the Deers vs. The Cars.

Send me yours. I'll post them as/if/when/whatever I get them.

Latiflearned.com - Go Listen

I went to see Jamie Lidell last night. What they say about him is true. It's all true. It's a beautiful thing to see him play. It brought me joy. Then I walked home from Alston, which was also good, if slightly less joyous than the vocal-gasmic Jamie Lidell. There were pop tarts involved. As Elvis Costello says, talking about music is like dancing about architecture, so I'll just leave it at that. Go see him if he's in your town. Try to stand close enough that he can sweat on you.
I realized recently that when I saw Royksopp back in October, they were wearing identical outfits to what Kraftwerk wears in their 1977 video The Robots. I wished I'd noticed at the time, but it's still pretty fantastic to know. I love electronic things. Also worth noting is that Royksopp's video for Remind Me looks an awful lot like the video for Kraftwerk's video The Robots.

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confluence

I'm eating a peanut butter and jelly burrito, reading a biography of Django Reinhardt, when I have a strange epihpany about the music to which I'm listening. I've got Nelson Cavaquinho's "Mulher Sem Alma" queued up in the iTunes, and I realize that it sounds an awful lot like Blonde Redhead's "Pink Love," off of Misery is a Butterfly. Same chords. Similar melody. The same motion. At the time, it seemed so reasonable, but in retrospect, it was probably a coincidence. But my whole epiphany hinges on the possibility that it wasn't... That would be perfect.

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UPDATE: Heh, I wrote Misery is a Butterful, instead of Butterfly. I don't believe in the spell-checker, and sometimes it bites me in the arse. But in a good way. Good arse biting.

Euripides Eumendides

Also, the crazy guy who died from all the running, his name wasn't Marathon, it was Philippides. They named the city of Philadelphia after him. True story. Except for the Philadelphia part, which I made up.

You can't really plan to drink on a Saturday afternoon. I mean, it is possible to plan it, but you kind of have to question why you'd be making those kinds of degenerate plans in advance. If you're going to be a degenerate, it's best to let the degeneration happen naturally. Like, say your plan was to make gnocchi and watch a baseball game. Then you're like, "Well, I could have some wine, that would spice up this otherwise Zen experience." Because you don't always want Zen on a Saturday afternoon. Then you're like, "well, since I drank half of that bottle of wine, I'd better drink half of another." And all of a sudden, you've become drunk on a Saturday afternoon. It's a magical thing, but like all magical things, it's best to let them find you than to seek them out yourself.
Here's to drunken Saturday afternoons, and sober Saturday nights.

I keep writing songs that prominently feature articles of clothing. Red shirts. Socks. Et-cetera. I made a silent promise to myself (that is being aired here for the first time on the internet! Amazing!) that I wouldn't write any more songs about girls if I could help it. I feel like 25 out of 40-or-so songs being focused on the babes is a bit too high of a ratio. So I'm cutting myself off. My subconscious, in retaliation, makes lyrics about clothing items and crossing streets. All metaphorical and shit. I mean, what is this, poetry or something? I'm trying to write a fuckin' song here! Come on, subconscious, do your stuff! I need vivid imagery! Catchy hooks! Irony (but not too much irony, lest I cross the hipster threshold and end up in Alanis Morrisette-Land.). My several-person fandom requires it!
Here's to my subconscious/song-writing ego: id, the internet salutes you.

And tonight, I go to see Lair of the Minotaur.

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Marathon Died for your Sins

I was biking around Boston yesterday, and I ran into the marathon. Now, the marathon wasn't a big surprise to me, because a friend of my roomate's who is running the marathon was staying at my place this weekend. I crossed over the river of runners a couple of times in my random perusal of Boston, which I'm wont to do on my days off. Peruse Boston. Not cross runners. You shouldn't cross a river of runners if you can avoid it. This is something I learned yesterday.
It occured to me, wading through the sea of sweaty bodies, that people run the marathon in celebration of the guy named Marathon, who ran from one town to the next in Greece like four billion years ago. Twenty-six or so miles he ran to deliver some important message from one Greek to another. Then he died of exhaustion. So we're celebrating the death of Marathon by trying our best to imitate his untimely demise. You kind of have to wonder who came up with that idea...
And then there's Jesus. The only thing I have to say about that is: what would evil robot Jesus do?.

Latiflearned.com - Go Listen

PS: When I say I ran into the marathon, don't get the impression that I did any running. Because I didn't. Sometimes I run. Monday wasn't one of those times.

PPS: People die often running marathons. The circle of life keeps.. um... being... circular.

UPDATE: I stand corrected. Tim tells me otherwise about the story of the Marathon. Maybe I'm strung out on endorphins. It could be, except that I've never taken any endorphins. But who's to say that matters?

failure to thrive

I recently heard a phrase that's stuck with me: failure to thrive. A friend had a kitten that was new to their house, and she said "it had failure to thrive, so it died. " "What does that mean?" queried I. Apparently sometimes animals in new surroundings just lose the knack of surviving, the will to live, and they just die. They fade away.
Humans can have it, too. The deaths of elderly people who simply pass on for no medical reason are often attributed to "failure to thrive." And human babies, even if they're well-fed, and kept at the perfect temperature, etc., often die if they're not held. Failure to thrive. It's an incredible phrase that keeps circling around my head like a semantic vulture, looking for some vague notion on which to scavenge.
And then I got to thinking: why is it that babies typically die when they're not held? And when is the point where you can stop being touched regularly, and you won't die? And what happens to adults who aren't regularly held/touched? Clearly, it has dire somatic repercussions. Which gets me to thinking about my girl-free 2006. Maybe I'm setting myself up for some actual medical problem with my policy. Lord knows I don't need more medical problems. So cuddling is in. But only platonically. Because Plato was gay, so it was okay for him to cuddle with girls without leading them on.

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blech

I was real excited about getting my last paycheck, until i realized that it's all going to taxes. Damn! I'm torn between my knowledge that taxes, when rightly applied, go to good services that shouldn't be free market-based (like fire departments and police, for instance), and my desire not to give a gigantic hunk of money to the government that I don't particularly support once a year. I mean, what, like a quarter of my taxes are probably going to support a war in which I've never placed any support? But it's not as though you heard it here first, so I'll just drop it. Squarepusher is the only music that gets me through angst like this. I require angular, brainy jazz-house music.
I went to New York City and back on Wednesday, to visit my brother/friend/ex-roomie/whatever. I spent the day helping him move from one apartment to another, which, though mundane-sounding, was actually a real boon in that it was a departure from my regular routine (the one that gives me the money that makes me pay the taxes). The Fung-Wah bus ride home was uneventful, except for when we got to Boston. The bus driver thought it would be a great idea to give us a tour of the entirety of Cambridge and North Boston before going to the bus station. We crossed the bridge between Cambridge and Boston three times, on three different bridges, before he finally committed to taking us to South Station. I have to admit, I wasn't impressed. But it's the Fung-Wah, right? The price is right. They give you a quarter when you get on the bus and say to drop the quarter in a box in the front of the bus if everything was satisfying, and to use it to call them if it wasn't. Well, I did my part and kept the quarter. It brought the ticket price down to $14.75. A bargain! I feel compensated enough that I don't have to call.
I didn't say it was going to be a fascinating post.

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A comment for a comment

It's worth here noting that Ean Frick, who wrote the Dig article about the gentrification of the Alston area that got the bee in my bonnet a while back, has posted a comment on my post to "set the record straight." Thanks, Ean for discovering my blog in your onanistic googling, and for thinking that my words are worth the reply. I'm sure that when it comes right down to it, we have a lot more in common than not. Except you're in the Dig, and I'm in the fucking blog-o-sphere.
(There are a couple of new words in the modern lexicon that really kick my ass: "metrosexual" and "blogosphere." It's unfortunate that these words made it to the popular press, and appear to be sticking, because they're perverse plays on pre-existing words that have little semantic value to attach to their incredibly weak aesthetic (aural?) qualities. I say we stop using them. How's about "well-dressed" and "the internet"? Hmm? Would that really be worse?
First the "blogosphere" then the big blue/green sphere.

Latiflearned.com - Go Listen

Post-Script: One word that should maybe enter the lexicon, however, is "crustfunders." Once again thank you to Ean Frick.

for the record

For the record, it's totally doable to drive to New York City from Boston, hang out for the day, and then take a bus back. It's not even that stressful or expensive. It's actually kind of pleasant. I went and was somebody else for a day. Older, more experienced, simply outside of my life. New York City has that effect on people.
For the record, nobody on MySpace or Friendster is actually interested in meeting new friends through the internet. I've done some mild research into the matter (in the form of cold messages to interesting-looking strangers), and nobody seems too interested in meeting in real life. Of course, this is loaded, because maybe it's just me that they don't want to meet.
For the record, it's only stalking if you don't leave them alone once they've stopped showing interest in you. Or if you can't tell that they're never going to show interest in you. That should be like written in stone somewhere on livejournal.com
For the record, there's no difference between sleeping in your clothes and sleeping in pajamas. Unless, of course, your clothes are super-fancy/tight and uncomfortable. In which case pajamas are better. But generally, it's just not worth the effort.
For the record, even though she was/is in the New Pornographers, Neko Case is a whole lot more country when she performs on her own.
For the record, it's time to drink the rest of my tea and go to bed.


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Bird's Eye View

A friend posted some pictures of me/my hands over at bird's eye view. Go and see her lovely photos.
In other news, I hope to sleep through the night tonight. It's my major goal for the day.

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Comment comments. The Meta-Comment

I don't know what the etiquette is in the world at large about leaving comments on blog posts, but maybe it's time for me to throw in my two cents. Maybe I've done this in the past? I can't remember.
Rule 1: Leave your name. If you don't know me, and you're going to comment about my writing, let me know who you are. Often I get anonymous comments, and I can guess who sent it, but usually I have no idea. It's hard to take something seriously (or jokingly, or whatever) if it could have been written by a robot for all I know.
Rule 2: Don't flame strangers. Based on my detailed analysis of the comments left on this blog, if you truly are anonymous (and not some friend of mine too lazy to log in with your own name), what you're writing me usually amounts to a flame. It's just not cool to flame strangers. It's not polite.
(not cool to flame? That's a strange phrase.)
I don't take this thing very seriously or personally, even though it's ostensibly all about me, but what are you people, raised in a barn?
Plus you should all write more comments. If I received a zillion more, the pain of the occcasional flame would dissipate.

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I'd Like a Venti Twitching Fetus-Cino with Cinnamon Sprinkles to Go

the lips don't drip
when you're taking a trip.
the thighs don't lie.

ur a dip.



am i?

Lunchtime IM Poetry with Osama

baste baby
oven 350
taste gravy
taste maybe
hehe
so dellishy!
lil'squishy
heh
cook 'till glazy
12:25 PM
makes ya crazy
feelin' hazy
w the taste shiz-azy
shiz-kebob
corn on the cob
eat like a slob
kiss a man named bob
buy a watch fob
bob likes gravy
baby gravy
he served in the navy
was very bravy
with a man-boy lady
thats pretty shady
taste the shady navy man-boy lady gravy
slurp it down
unless its brown
get rid of tha frown
then get outta town

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More Shameless Self-Promotion Than Usual

Okay, so by now, you've noticed that I keep posting links to my music web site at the bottom of every post, but you should really go and visit it now if you haven't recently. I've made it much prettier, added a couple of demo tracks, photos, basically spruced the place up. There's also the permalink to it on the right-hand side of this page, if you lose track of this post. And soon, very soon, you'll be able to buy CDs and possibly (gasp!) merchandise off of that page. But probably not much with the merchandise until I start to play more gigs. By which I mean any gigs.

Here's another reminder that Seasac Records has a bunch of my stuff (b-sides and demos, mostly), in addition to a whole lot of other cool music, all free and downloadable.

I've also joined the unwashed masses over at MySpace with a latiflearned page. But it's cool, because it's color-coordinated with my real web page. Be my friend if you're on MySpace. Lord knows my meager profile could use a few.

Have I said all of this already? Probably. Never hurts to say it again.

Relevant History

It's worth noting that my Boston friend whose name may or may not rhyme with Osama wrote a poem for/about/in response to me a while back. It's such a beautiful thing. I hope that you enjoy it, too.

Latiflearned.com - Go Listen

I'm on NPR!

Hey guess what? I'm on NPR's Open Mic Podcast starting today, apparently. They told me that they'd be featuring my music, but they didn't tell me when. It's a good thing I checked it out, or I might have missed it entirely.
If you want to download the track, you can subscribe to the NPR "Open Mic" Podcast in iTunes, or go right here to download it. Tell all your friends!

Latiflearned.com - If you're curious for more tracks, info, gigs, etc. you can find that stuff here.

Update: Here's another link to the actual story about me:
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5298286

Another Update: You Macalester folks might like to know that Zack Kline, violinist extraordinaire, has also recently been featured on NPR's open mic. Represent!

Awesome

The Pentagon wants to unleash cyber-insects on our enemies. You know, the terrorists. Wherever it is that they are. Never mind how we'd actually go about controlling insects with a remote control. I think this is fantastic. It's just fucking out of control that somebody out there has the hubris to suggest that we remote-control insects to be our spies. Think of the civilian spin-offs: remote-controlled butterflies with webcam mounts to hover outside of your neighbor's bathroom window. Malaria mosquitos to attack your high-school principal. The fun never ends!
I don't even know what I'm talking about.
I watched the 40-Year-Old Virgin last night, and just about peed all over the couch, I laughed so hard. I thought it ironic, me celibate this year, watching the plight of this (fake) person who's been celibate for 40. It just put my whole shit in perspective, you know? Yeah. Plus it's so funny it induces bowel movements.
Tomorrow I'm going to Ottawa, which should be cold and take way way way too long on the bus. It's actually faster to take a bus to Canada from Boston than it is to take a bus to Northern New York. Strange. It's way cheaper, as well. I plan on taking beef jerky and my iPod Nano, which has proven to be as good a conversation starter as a pet toad in your lap. And if the conversation's still dry, I can always show off my missing tooth.

Latiflearned.com - Go Listen

blast from the past

Did you know that Iran resurrected Abraham Lincoln to be their new president?

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cognitive dissonance

I love those moments when people's autonomic communication tics clash with their socialized responses. I went to this gym near my house the other day, to check it out, and this fellow (we'll call him "Brad") gives me a tour of the place. "Hi. I'm Brad. What's your name?" He says to me. Donald. Nice to meet you. Then we turn a corner to officially start our tour. The very next thing out of his mouth is "What's your name?" Donald. "Mine's Brad. Nice to meet you." Then we commence with our tour. The first stop on our tour was the men's changing room, then on to the freeweights, cardio, etc. We got back to the office, and he said, "Have you seen the changing room?" I couldn't tell which part of this guy was on autopilot and which part was actually trying to talk to me.
You'll hear it if you listen for it. People walk into my office and say "Hi Donald" under their breath and then "Hello Donald" to my face. Like their little mental rehearsal leaked out into meatspace. My roomate occasionally mutters something utterly uncoordinated with our current social context by way of greeting. Like, we'll both be in the apartment for a couple of hours doing our own thing, and then we'll meet up in some room and he'll say "What's going on?" You know what's going on. We've both been here for hours. This isn't annoying, it's fascinating. I never say anything about it, it just goes into the mental catalog. But I'm taking notice!
What's the normal thing to do socially in this situation? Do you pretend you didn't notice? That's usually my tack. But is it also acceptable to say something like, "You realize that you're skipping like a broken record?" If somebody could get back to me on the protocol, my social life would probably benefit.
Then there's the other question. Why are we skipping like CD players without noticing it? I blame electronic music. It's Aphex Twin's fault. We can trace it farther back. Terry Reilly is the progenitor of our unconscious tics. His minimalist music has chipped away at the very foundation of our cognition.
Shit! I'm going off on a tangent again.
Till next time...
Until we meet again...
Hasta la vista...
My name's Brad. What's yours?

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temperate, with a 35% chance of irony

I received an email just now, and upon perusing the recipients list compulsively (does anybody else do this?), I realized that 90% of the email addresses were gmail-based. Google owns the personal communication of a generation. This blog is google. They know every personal interaction, they have receipts of all of my e-purchases, it goes on and on. What happens if they change their motto to, oh, I don't know... "BE EVIL!" I can see the (slightly modified Onion) headline now:

Google Moves into Sinister "Phase 2" of Operations

Maybe it's time to simply host my own email server and blog. Take the internet back into my own hands. With the Patriot Act coming around again, maybe it's time to escalate the paranoia in both directions. That's what the internet is for. Well, that and porn.
While I'm at it, I should cancel my Friendster and MySpace accounts. I don't know to what degree this would keep the advertisers out, but maybe it could help. On the other hand, I got an advertising call on my cell phone because Latiflearned.com is registered to it, and now the whole world knows. Woops. So maybe having your own web server isn't all it's cracked up to be.
Enough rambling!

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other, related resolutions

I want to write fewer songs about girls. Like any other resolution, this seems to be easier in theory than practice. Which is funny, because having to exercise self-restraint in the songwriting process is akin to dry-humping. It's not precisely what we're built for. It creates tension. But that can be good tension. I feel that unless I write songs about other things, like, you know, fields of sunflowers or very old buildings, I will be an expert at something nobody wants to hear about.

They say that songs had any power at all, we'd all be in love. I think that's uncharitable. Songs have made a lot of otherwise boring sex pretty entertaining. Don't look for an oracle when what you want is a glass of beer. That's been my family motto for 4/7000ths of a generation.

But it's not like anybody's going to be having sex to my music.

If you do, though, let me know. I'd appreciate it.

The other family motto is "Work like dogs, eat like kings."

(He said, writing a totally unnecessary blog post from work...)

With all of that behind me, it's worth noting that 50% of the songs that I've written in the last month have been about girls. Breakups, even. Which is funny, because I haven't broken up with anybody for half a year. Where's my self-control?

tuned in

I'm so tuned in to the frequency of my cell phone's ring that I hear that frequency everywhere. Sometimes I play guitar, and the string harmonics create the exact same frequency. It's usually when I'm playing hard, so I'm not sure if I'm really hearing the phone ring. So I stop playing. Or when I'm listening to music really loudly. Or sometimes I just imagine it. The phone manages to interrupt my life even when it's not doing anything at all.
I see two solutions:

Solution A: Throw the fucking phone out the window. Those devices irradiate your brain and pollute your soul, making you believe that communication and life down to the minute is somehow superior to a more relaxed pace. Faster life is better life. Throw it away.

Solution B: Can my generic telephone ring tone, and get the new Kanye West polyphonic. Impress my peeps on the subway with my vast library of dope phone beats.

Clearly, it's a choice between the lesser of two weevils. I fear change. I'll leave everything the way it is, and adjust myself.

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Crack!

I have one problem tooth. Or should I say had one problem tooth. The only tooth with a cavity (knock on dentin), the only tooth that ever broke. I had a root canal. Didn't take. Had a crown. Broke. Three different times. So today, i had the tooth pulled. For better or worse, that hunk of problem is gone from my life. Hopefully.
They don't tell you very much about what's going to happen when they pull your tooth. This is probably because you're sitting there in the chair, gums numb, thinking things like "This is going to be like pulling teeth! That's exactly what this is! Pulling teeth!." And we all know how hard that is.
But it's really not that bad. You have the option to go under, but I think that's for wussies. All they do is take your tooth in a pair of pliers, and yank it out sideways, using your head as leverage. I thought they'd have something more sophisticated than that, but it's really pretty much the same as the technique I use for pulling nails out of boards.
The bloody tooth stump is pretty cool-looking, too.
I drove to the dentist, which is basically news in itself, because I drive so infrequently these days. Now, I don't know if you've ever driven on a Saturday in suburban Boston, but here's what people do in suburban Boston on a sunny Saturday afternoon: they go and get their car washed.
Now, car wash guys must make a killing, because I only saw two car washes between Jamaica Plain and Norwood, but both of them had lines all the way into the street. I'm thinking: it would take less time and money to go to the store, buy car wash supplies, and do it in your driveway. But clearly I'm missing out on something here. Some essential Boston experience, akin to the joy of going to Fenway park and getting glares from suspicious Red-Sox fans because I'm not wearing anything red. It's like reverse McCarthyism around here. But I digress.
In summation, eat more dried plums, and don't take the gas if you're getting your teeth pulled. It'll be something you can bore your kids about someday. And make sure to check out the Dedham car wash. Dedham. So hot right now.. Dedham.
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My Hopes

People like to talk about the change that's coming over the music and video industry. The transition between analog mediums and non-transferability that comes along with it to digital mediums and the ability to make perfect duplicates. It's not a transition anymore. It's happened. Analog, much as I love it, has been relegated to DJs and audio purists; those willing to put forth an awful lot of effort to listen to music and have it sound real. The rest of the world is on digital, for better or worse.
It's my hope that we'll use this in a good way. I see it going in many directions. For instance, we could end up in a world where you have to pay some fee to Sony every time you want to play a song. It's not out of the question; it's what the record companies have always wanted. Now the technology is in place to do that. We're just not quite under the yoke of that technology yet, with CDs and MP3s still being ubiquitous. Ever try to use somebody else's WMA? Have you noticed the spyware/malware embedded in your latest Warner Bros. CD purchase?
Anyway, I digress from my hope. I see us as potentially being a culture glued to our broadband connections, downloading music at our whim, experiencing our art through a vibrating magnet and an LCD. It's so easy to do things this way. It's cheap, you don't have to get up, it's gratifying, it's instant. Records are so much easier to achieve/create, in a lot of ways, than a solid live performance. But it's my hope that we can parlay this technology into real human contact. It's so easy to hear a band's record, to get that advertisement, as it were, that maybe more people will start going to live shows. When recordings become ubiquitous and essentially free, maybe the live show will become (as it once was and remains for many) the venue where the true originality happens and is expected. The records are what gets you there. Live shows are already the place where artists (and TicketMaster) actually make their money. It would be ironic if we went full circle from the invention of the phonograph, where records were considered a cheap imitation of live shows, through the record-as-product, and back. It would be ironic, but it would also be excellent. Because we've reached a point where we need to make an effort to have actual human interaction, and it's my hope that maybe the availability of everything at our desk will push us back out into the real world, seeking reality with which to corroborate.
Seems like a long shot, but it's actually my driving force in seeking out art. Maybe it could work for everybody...

Latiflearned.com - Go Listen. Then see me live (whenever I get my shit together and start performing live. Anyway, it'll be on that page if I am).

Dried Plums

"Dried Plums" are the best thing to happen to prunes since prunes came about in the first place. The word "prune" has all of these negative connotations. We say "wrinkled like a prune" or "prune-y." Prunes mean old people, and they also mean pooping. Nobody wants to think about old people and pooping. So we don't talk about prunes. And nobody would buy a prune, let alone a whole box, because that would mean being associated with old people and/or pooping. Regardless of how well we would be pooping, we just don't care for that association.
Enter "dried plums." You may have noticed in shopping at your nearest food-conglomerate-convenience-utility store that the word "prune" is absent from the box. Advertisers have become savvy to the poop/prune complex, and have diverted a future generation from having to be subjected to the vagaries of old people, poop, and prunes by calling them what they actually are: dried plums.
Try it. It sounds a lot better. Mmm... I love dried plums.
Here's my new catch-phrase for Girl-Free 2006: "Ought Sex." Two months down and I haven't even broken a sweat.

**Update - 03/01/2006** - The local neighborhood store stopped selling dried plums. Boo.

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New Words (or, A Soapbox for a Soapbox)

I learned a new word today. Actually two words, but they're related: "yupster," and "yindie." Can you guess what this means? Let me quote from the article where I read it (The Dig, 2.22.06, p. 9):

"... the new 'yindie' or 'yupster' trend: young and hip, but professional. Too square for the tatoos and tight pants of the scenesters; too uptight for the relaxed fit of the b-boys and bedside DJs."

This in the context of an article about how a neighborhood (Allston!) is going downhill, because the punks that made it so sweet are leaving and the lame-o students and Young Urban Who-Gives-A-Fucks are moving in.
You can see where I'm headed with this. Tight pants aside, they're describing me here: ripe old age of 23, pro computer skillz, young, hip. No tattoos. More-or-less symmetrical hairdo. Fancy coat. No Technics on my desk. The implication is that if you're "professional," you're square, no matter how hip you look and act. No matter who you are, you're getting judged by your job.
Well, I'm sorry, Ean Frick, if mom doesn't pay my rent and finance my "homegrown" lifestyle. Hipsters are the same as the hippies were: hanging around and looking cool, talking big and living off your newfound morals is a lifestyle you can't support unless mommy and daddy are footing the bill. Sorry that I can't find an image that I'd want permanently etched into my forearm. Sorry that getting on my feet and learning how to pick up my beer bottles off the floor and put them into the recycling qualifies me as not fit to live in your down-to-earth rat-infested Allston Beat utopia. And it's a shame that you feel that way about me because I've got a job; we've probably got more in common than you think.
The first thing you get asked when you meet an American is "What do you do?" We should be more careful about defining ourselves by our employment (or identifying with our lack thereof). Real people don't always do what they want, and real people aren't defined by what they look like. They aren't definable at all.
I don't live in Allston, but gentrification is happening all around Boston. The same trend of homogenization and commodification is happening in Back Bay, Jamaica Plain, Cambridge, Brookline, everywhere. The real issue is that the city as a policital entity doesn't care about independent arts, affordable housing (rent control), public services (MBTA, looking at you here), etc., and that the people who live here are all too willing to replace JP O'Drinky's with Club Aqua, or to let somebody else do it for them without putting up a fight. Place the blame where the blame is due, and *do* something about it if it bothers you. For instance, the Brattle in Cambridge has been putting up a good fight to keep it's doors open and independent film happening. Send them a donation; we can turn this town around.

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Compensation

It's funny the ways in which we compensate for the world we've created. We know we're built for grass, but we make roads out of asphalt, and then we have to make special shoes for us to be able to run on those roads without hurting our knees. We create cities, big dense stressful polluting non-human-friendly environments, then cram ourselves into them. We drink a gallon of orange juice a week and take yoga classes and drink de-stress tea, we smoke and we drin, we plug our ears into headphones to dull our senses to the overload. It's funny how humans are so proficient at creating environments that we can't tolerate. But because we're so adaptable, we tolerate them anyway. Modern science allows us to survive everything, enjoy little.
The thing about compensation, though, is that it's just as easy to overcompensate as it is to simply compensate. Especially when it comes to self-medication. The point is to be sure that you're still experiencing the life that you're living. We're living in a time when we've got an option to ignore everything, and paying attention is simply a choice we have to make, not an inevitability. So, um, I ask you to please make the choice to pay attention, and experience your life. If we don't do that, collectively, then the hard times ahead will be made that much harder.

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Moved In

Well, I finally got a bookshelf yesterday, a big beautiful thing, six feet high with shelves over a foot deep. It allowed me to finally unpack the remaining five boxes full of books and CDs that comprise the rest of my life. It was cathartic to see my music, the novels I intended to read and forgot about, my old books on origami, my spanish-lanugage flamenco poetry, guitar parts, and to finally have a place to put them and refer to them daily. It's the kind of thing that makes you feel like yourself, but you don't know you're missing it until you get it back. I get that impression a lot lately, like there's a lot I've been missing, and it's just a matter of waiting before it comes back into my life. But after several months, I can take having a bookshelf (and a desk and a dresser) as finally being able consider myself moved-in to this place.
That said, i'm probably not going to stay in this particular apartment for more than this year. It's just not quite right, for the rent I pay. Not like you need to know why it's not right or how much rent I pay, it just sort of bears saying things like that if I'm to keep up any pretense of the "mass-email"-ness of this blog, and not go the way of a friend who just gave up on blogging in general. I'll probably stay in JP, but don't quote me on that. You can quote me on the girl-free 2006 thing, but not on staying in JP. I'm committed to the former but not the latter.
JP (eace on earth)
Donald

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Evolving

I hear that every seven years, your body has completely regenerated itself. That's to say that in seven years, every cell currently in your body will have been replaced with a similar one. This means that you're literally a new person every seven years. Which explains why I also hear that our lives go in seven-year cycles.
But think about this: say you've got a physical ailment, a bum leg, say. Theoretically, in seven years your leg could have healed itself. It's an entirely new leg, after all. What's to say that it can't be a good leg instead of your old beaten up version? A leg upgrade. So if we could just harness some ability to tell our cells to stop reproducing bad legs and start pumping out good ones, we would be on the road to getting better with time. We would be more like fine wines than nice cheeses. Or would we be like leather bags? I dunno, something that only gets better with age. Like, literally gets better with age. I love this idea. Everybody start telling your body to pick up the pace a little, let's see some real healing!

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Jeans

I was shopping for jeans in Boston. This took me to a number of stores. It took me to such a large number that I decided to do as Daryl Zero and stop looking for any pair of jeans in particular. I looked at all jeans, in all stores. Because if, of all the jeans in the world, you're looking for one pair, your chances of finding it are very slim. If you are very slim, your chances further decrease. If, however, you're looking for any jeans at all, suddenly you find what you are looking for everywhere you turn.
My unbiased search led me into Neiman Marcus. Neiman Marcus is near the Back Bay Metro station, and it contains jeans, so it's a likely candidate for my completely non-weighted look at the world of jeans. After some poking around, I see a pair that catches my eye. Banishing any thoughts of "these are probably too expensive for you to pay for" until I took a closer look, I, um, take a closer look.
Now, these jeans are pretty nice, at first glance. Premium jeans. First-rate jeans. A good dark wash, straight legs. The kind of jeans that look like they fit, and haven't already been lived in for a couple of years. Which is what I was going for. Upon closer inspection, however, I noticed that these jeans had these gigantic brass tetrahedronal rivets. Egyptian pyramid rivets. They played tricks of scale on your eyes, not being accustomed as our eyes are to seeing rivets of this magnitude on a pair of jeans. You don't even notice they're there, they're so big. A closer reading of the little booklet that accompanies the jeans says the following (paraphrased):

"Your new jeans have rivets that are the best thing to happen to rivethood since the metal shop. Your rivets must be treated with the utmost of rivet reverence and care. Do not wash these rivets as you would a pedestrian garment such as a three-piece suit. These rivets demand that a left-handed Elbonian sherpa rub them daily with a chamois. If not rubbed with the proper level of care and rivet respect, your rivets will disengage from your jeans and attach themselves to Michael Jackson.
In addition, your jeans are treated with a special dye that cannot be washed, because it will disappear, being magically treated to bond with all elements and turn into formaldehyde. Also, don't sit on any white couches, because the color of your jeans will dry-bleed onto your white furniture, and you'll be left with a rash.*"

So, let me get this right: these jeans cost $450, and I can't wash them or sit down in them? You would think that for $450 dollars, you'd get a bit more performance out of a pair of jeans. But that's just my completely unbiased opinion. I guess I'll just have to settle for looking worn and baggy. Worn and baggy is so hot right now.

*I made up the rash part.

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Pre-Approved

I have been Pre-Approved an awful lot more in the last few weeks than I ever was up until now. Until I moved to Boston, I had never been Pre-Approved. Nobody was happy to tell me that I qualified for a low interest rate, and a high credit limit. They were content, it seems, to leave me alone before. But now I have been Pre-Approved.
This is fantastic. Approval is imminent. Think of the possibilities once I have gained Approval. Things that had previously been banished to the realm of pure possibility happen when you're Approved. And Pre-Approval is the first step toward sweet Approvability. This is exciting, for while being in a Pre-Approved state is motivating in the extreme, my cultural assimilation will not be complete until I reach complete and utter Approval. Then and only then can I stand in the ranks of the Approved, and in some cases the Twice-and-Thrice-Approved, and laugh deridingly at the unwashed, unApproved masses.


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Kindred Souls

Have you ever met a kindred soul, and you just know it from the moment you meet that you have more than just "something in common." You've got that special connection, that philotic link that connects the two of you at the subconscious level. You're tuned in to the Ethereal Subconscious Vibe Network (ESVN), and they're sitting on the couch right next to you. The feeling you get, the knowledge that things are right in the world because there are people like this in it. I love that feeling.
Then they go into how you should accept Jesus the Saviour into your life, and sharp cheddar and wine are really bad for you, and public transportation is a waste of time, and Tom Waits is just a horrible beat poet with a bad band, and really there's nothing to say for fine art and dance, and they need to make the highways bigger, and the war's really a good thing, because the terrorists in Iraq and New Mexico need to be killed so that once and for all we can emerge as the nation you just don't fuck with, for God's sake, and fuck Johnny Cupcakes because the t-shirts at Urban Outfitters are way cooler. And you think, "How could somebody hate Tom Waits? I was so wrong."
So wrong.

Latiflearned.com - Go Listen

High Hopes and a Dash of Cumin

I had really big plans for today. i was going to have a physical therapy appointment, visit a museum, reunite with a long lost friend, do some yoga, and some more reuniting with (longer but less lost) friends. Instead, I had the appointment, bought some stuff, went for a run, bought some more stuff (which was a trip originally poorly disguised as a trip to the museum, which inevitably failed when I couldn't find the museum and decided to keep walking forward rather than retrace my steps), and made some really killer enchiladas. Which really ruin your momentum. All you can do after eating really killer enchiladas (RKEs) is coast for the rest of the day. Coast and ponder leftover enchiladas for a week and all that this entails.
I'm a bit concerned about the implications of my physical therapy appointment. They did some ultrasound on my head, which ostensibly relaxes your muscles. That's fine and good, and it did indeed relax the muscles in my head, with the requisite tingling sensation that I've come to expect from all visits to people who re-align my body/energy/aura. But isn't ultrasound the same procedure that they use on babies to make a picture for the pregnant mother, the orderly, and whoever else decides to lean their head into the room? This begs the question: what is that ultrasound doing to those babies? Does it make them feel relaxed? Does it increase their self-esteem? Does it make them more inclined to listen to Aphex Twin and enjoy it?
One of the things I bought today, a purchase of which I'm especially proud, is the CD by Alarm Will Sound called Acoustica, where they play the works of Aphex Twin. This is not to be confused with Apocalyptica, which is a string quartet that plays the works of Metallica. Or Bjorn Again, which is a tribute band to Abba based in Australia. But I digress: Acoustica is a really sweet album; it turns out that you only need 22 classical musicians, at the peak of their power and concentration, to be able to do a decent acoustic facsimile of an Aphex Twin track. "Why would I care about this when I could go and listen to Aphex Twin?" You say. And then you say "And I don't even listen to Aphex Twin." To which I say: you should try ultrasound. It'll loosen you up.

Latiflearned.com - Go Listen

Girl Free 2006

I've decided that, notwithstanding some of my previous comments, I do have a New Year's resolution. I've decided that 2006 is going to be girl-free. I'm just not going to date any of 'em this year. I get more done when I'm single. I kind of like the power dynamic that it creates with strangers. I like to feel that control, the smile/smile-back. I need to be productive. You can't be as productive when you've got somebody else around all of the time. it's a fact. So I'm not going to play hard to get, I'm going to be impossible to get. That's the way it is this year. Girl-Free 2006.

Update: In retrospect, this seems to follow pretty naturally from my previous post.

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Poof!

I was writing today to a friend from whom I have not heard in months. To sum up what had happened in the meantime, I said, "I put my head down, and when I looked up again, months had passed." It seems strange that all of this time since I got to Boston would have gone by so quickly; as it was happening it seemed like it would go on forever. There have been some really long days and a lot of experiences that I'd rather not re-live. It passed all the same.
My ex-girlfriend Anna told me once that the thing that's nice about dating somebody is that you have some frame of reference for your experiences. You can say, "I did this!" and experience the validation of somebody else saying, "Yes! It's true! I was there. It truly was grand!" This is a profound insight, I think, into why people couple themselves off in the first place. Surely it's better to have a record. Memories, like photographs (or journal entries), create a better picture of the past if they exist in plentitude. Isn't it a fantastic thing about memory that if you don't take pains to cast a memory somehow, it'll simply disappear.
Well, just the things you did alone will disappear. If you've got friends and loved ones, they will share some of the burden of remembering things that you would otherwise forget. My sister and her boyfriend remember things about France that left my mind long ago. Maybe you don't really need a boyfriend or girlfriend. Maybe they just condense a process that occurs with every human with whom you come into contact.
if that's the case, you deserve some thanks. Thank you for coming here and reading, for caring enough to want to remember. It means a lot to me, though I say very little about it.

Pets

I think that we should give pets more human-like names. I mean, Fluffy or Zoltan are fine names and all, but I don't think that they accurately represent our pets' status in our lives. It would be like calling your boyfriend "Dopey." I propose that we give our pets the same names that we would give to humans: "This is my dog, Joe." "Say hello to our new kitten, Mary." If they're going to be family members, why not give them appropriate names? It helps to remove the cognitive dissonance.
For some reason I can't sleep tonight. Every time I get pretty close to falling asleep, I'm awoken by this panicked feeling, like I stopped breathing right at that moment where you go unconscious. I thought that I had my anxiety pretty well under control, but I guess I've still got a ways to go. If you're capable of sending calming vibes through ethernet cables (or wifi, if you're fancy), please direct your talents my way: I could use the help. I mean, it's 3:26AM and I've got to work today. But at least it's Friday, so no harm done. Heh.

The Edges of Things

"It was not hard for me to think of nothing, the way I felt at the moment. In order not to think of any one thing, all I had to do was think of many things, a little at a time: just think about something for a moment and fling it into space."
-Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

When I was littler, I used to get these hallucinations when I was trying to fall asleep. In that state before dreams, but after awake would feel like my head was in a vice, like everything about which I thought was infinitely expanding and contracting. It hurt my brain to think about it. I would think about the edges of things, edges so razor-sharp that there was an infinity in their frontier. I couldn't think about it for very long, because it would make me feel like I was going mad. It would make me feel a very real sort of pain and pressure. So I would think about other things. Garfield comics. Doing the dishes. Girls (later on). I was eventually able to make the hallucinations (or whatever they were) go away. But I never felt like I solved the problem. I just felt like I was ignoring it successfully. A minor victory, but I have to wonder if the battle wages on.
Murakami is a good writer; I feel as if the character in this book rationalizes things in a way that I find very comforting. Like, if there are humans out there who think this way, then I'm not alone. It's good to be reminded of that.

latiflearned.com - go and listen.

Latif Learned

I made a new album. You know, music? You like music, don't you? Get my album! You can get tracks and lyrics etc. over at latiflearned.com.
I hope that you enjoy it. If you ever forget that link, it's always over in my sidebar off of this blog.
Also, if you go to Seasac Records, you stand a good chance of being able to hear rare demos, b-sides, out-takes, Brazillian electro-remixes and other craziness. Also, you can hear the totally sweet bands Fujimo and Molocai and Ugly By Now, all for free. You're here because you're wasting time. Go and get some free music.

Toiling in the Fields

I've been thinking about the city. Life in the city, you have to admit, is pretty far-removed from what we're biologically constructed to be doing. Typically, people who live in cities spend the majority of their day immobile (sitting in chairs, which is actually a stress on the body), sheltered from the elements, etc. Fantastic. We've been through all of that before.
But if we're biologically constructed to be doing something more like running around in forests trying our best to kill rabbits and find berries or whatever, what is the analogue for a city-dweller? Is there anything that we can do to sort of simulate for our bodies the state of being healthy and normal?
So I think about my city friends who seem well-adjusted to life in the city. One common trait that they seem to share is that they're all really active. Always attending some event, or going to some party/event/benefit. Picnics. Bike rides. Shows. It seems like one way to be normal in a city is just to try to keep as busy as possible. Social hunting and gathering. Because food's easy to find, but it's just not right to sit around all day. A leisurely life in a city is potentially quite detrimental.
Or you could just join a gym, I guess.

listening to: Sonny Rollins - Saxophone Colossus

Somebody Watching

Do you ever do things when you're alone as though somebody were there watching you? Or like, if somebody were to walk in at that precise moment, they'd be sure to see you in top form? When I got my first Beta Band CD way back in college, I thought to myself, "This is the kind of music I want playing when somebody stumbles into my dorm room. They would think I was maximum cool." I guess that since I had that thought, it just sort of bled to the rest of my life. Now I make sure that I'm looking sharp when I'm vacuuming, that the lighting is proper when I'm doing dishes, that I've only got my good side exposed when I'm lying on the couch. I mean, what if somebody were to walk in at that precise moment? What if they had TV cameras? You'd want to be prepared, right?

Blanket

I just watched The Producers (the re-make with Matthew Broderick as Leo Bloom and Nathan Lane as Max Bialystock) the other day. It was pretty funny. There's a scene that keeps coming back up in my mind: Leo and Max are in Max's apartment, and Leo pulls this piece of blanket out of his pocket and starts rubbing it around his face. "It's not important, it just makes me feel comfortable," he says. But then Max takes the piece of blanket away and Leo freaks out. "MY BLANKET! YOU'VE GOT MY BLANKET! GIVE ME BACK MY BLANKET!" Up until that point he had maintained his composure, even though Max Bialystock clearly made him nervous. But when he lost his blanket, the thin facade of his composure wore through.
I like the idea, because everybody's got their blanket. Some thing or idea that, when rubbed the wrong way or put out of place, causes you to totally lose your cool. It could be something really small, like putting the tea bag in before the water, or stir-frying beef together with green peppers. It could be some past grudge that never faded, of which we do not speak.
Somebody told me once that our society is four skipped meals away from complete chaos. Best not to consider how thin that blanket that covers us all really is.
The Producers, though. Really funny movie, that.

I only think these things sometimes!

Blog posts and songs are snapshots. I would hate for anybody to get the impression that I constantly feel like I sound when I'm writing. That would be inaccurate. More accurate would be to say that I usually feel that way only for a couple of seconds, and in writing or performing the work in question I can revisit the feelings that it brought me. That way, I don't have to hold on to the more unpleasant things in life.
This could also explain why most of my songs are sad, and this blog isn't exactly the source of all things happy either. It's something I still need to work on, I suppose, letting go of the good things in addition to the bad...

Alchemistry

What is it that allows us to process ideas without thinking actively about them? I feel like much of the time I'm coming up with my ideas as I speak. How does that work? What kind of alchemistry allows us to not think not think not think and then eventually come to a conclusion about the way things were, the way things are? Is it a function of our memory, fading over the things we don't understand until we've only got a picture of the things that we comprehend? Or is it that our reality moves too fast, allowing us to only retroactively process that which, had we greater intelligence or perception, could have been immediately understood in the moment?
How is one to live in the moment when one can't understand the moment?
I've been feeling lately as though I'm sitting in the backseat of my life, watching it through a window. I keep thinking thoughts like, "wow, that was an interesting thing that you said," or "all right! you made it through another half an hour without forgetting to breathe!" Maybe this kind of meta-narrative happens often in other people's lives. If so, shout it out, because I'd hate to feel that I'm the only one.

Here's me and my brother playing tunes at Christmas. Stay tuned for links to Christmas photos.

Word. To the wise.

New Year's resolutions are for the kind of people who aren't constantly re-evaluating their stance in life to sit down and maybe try their hand at it. I don't think that shit applies to me. I spend too much time already thinking about how things have changed/are changing all the time. It's hard for any New Year's Day resolutions to contain any significance that any other day doesn't have. My advice is skip the resolutions and keep to the routine you've already got going. No sense piling any pressure on an already pregnant day. Plus it's hard to be resolved about anything when you're nursing a hangover.

I've had lots of musings lately that almost made it to the blog. Then I realized that they were all public transit-related. And this isn't a blog about that. So the question is: do I write inane ramblings about nothing of consequence simply for the sake of writing, or do I wait until I have something to say. I think the dates of my previous posts speak for themselves on the issue.
I realized just now that I have a few dear friends who don't know what's happened in my life lately. Too many changes, too big, happening too fast to fill everybody in. I made some reference to my heart being broken the other day. "Wait a minute, your heart was broken?" Well, yeah... I thought you knew. Wasn't it obvious?
No, I guess it wasn't.
Well, here come the holidays, the family, the travel, the more things to do at work, the end of the recording project, which should give me enough food for thought on which to chew (excuse my prepositions and my suppositions and my bad metaphor) that I eke something interesting/blog-worthy out of it. In the meantime, a healthy dollop of Holiday cheer your way. But if you ever call that Christmas tree a Holiday tree, I'm a gonna whup your ass.

The Other Shoe

As I walked to the Metro station this morning, I was listening to music on my little pod of music joy. I noticed about halfway to the station that the headphones weren't plugged in all the way. I plugged them in and the music soared! I completely failed to notice how tinny and bad it had sounded. It was only in the contrast that I realized.
Eventually, I got off the bus and headed to the office. Almost in the door, I realized that I hadn't taken the little headphone earbuds out of my ears, even though the music had stopped playing twenty minutees prior. I took them out, and felt better. Those things are uncomfortable! I could hear!
How many other things are like this in my life? How many half plugged-in headphones or unremoved earbuds do I have that I don't even know about? How many stoppers could I pull? How many things could I be seeing more clearly if I'd just remember to remove my sunglasses? How much better could I feel than I feel, if I could just find the switch?
Why is it that all of these thoughts happen during my commute? Do I stop thinking during the rest of the day?

Viral Marketing

I was walking on Newbury Street in downtown Boston with Erica the other day, ogling the passers-by by whom we were passing. We had this fantastic advertising idea: what if, say, the Gap paid people to walk around downtown and notice when you're wearing Gap clothes, then come up to you and say, "I love your jacket!" That would sure get people buying Gap clothes...
You see where this is headed. It turns out that the evil geniuses in the world of selling you shit already came up with this idea. The kicker for me is that they came up with it three years ago! There's a company called BzzAgent here in Boston that pays people to sell products to their friends in casual conversation. The idea is that you do this anyway: something like 25% of casual conversations contain some product reference. They just pay people to do it. There are caveats, of course, like you should tell your friends that you get paid to sell them shit, and people only sell shit they like. This does not make me feel any better about this being an industry. Not to mention that they thought of it three years before I did. Damn! I hate it when that happens!
We all know that advertising is evil. it's people trying to make you feel bad about yourself, to create voids in your life that only products can fill. What really gets me is that it seems like some of the great minds of our generation are involved in what's a fruitless activity, in terms of human advancement. Insurance agents and marketers keep better track of trends than research scientists, professors, and doctors. There's the real triumph of the free market. Can you hear me now?
PS You should all go out and buy the new Broken Social Scene album.

discussion question

Human beings are differentiated from other animals because we are the only species to make war.
Talk amongst yourselves.

changes - a rant

It's important to go into any relationship (romantic or otherwise) with the knowledge that you can't make other people change. I may have said this before, so I hope I'm not belaboring anything, but here I go. People do change, but it's never because you tell them to. At best, you can enact change in others by showing them a better way to do things, an alternative. At some point there's potential for it to dawn on people that their approach might not be as good as yours, and there's potential for things to be better. And they will subtlely change their life to be more like yours. We see this in fashion, advertising, but it also applies to domestic and interpersonal issues. It applies to everything. This is why you should live the life you preach; it's the only way to truly enact positive change in the world.
It's worth being careful around other people when they say that they've changed. Because even if you want to change, if you perceive a desire within yourself to be different, there's still a period of time before that desire is made manifest. You can want to change and remain the same. Or you can think that you've changed when nothing's different. I'm always leery when people say, "I've changed." That's usually an indicator that everything remains the same. The true change happens more subtlely; it usually it made apparent when somebody else tells you that something's different about you.
This applies to relationships, of course, because so many people do this cycle of breaking up and getting back together, on the premise that things are different now, that he or she or life or the world or your perception of it has changed for the better and that everything will magically work. We're getting better culturally at seeing that this isn't the case, for example, in the case of physical or sexual or verbal abuse. But not emotionally damaging situations. We're still stuck, culturally, on the idea that if all that happened was that somebody broke your heart or drove you crazy, without actually hurting you physically, you've still got a chance of making it together. I think it's worth possibly re-examining this notion. However, in the grand canon of notions that ought to be re-examined, this one takes a low spot on the list.

Things I learned on the bus today

It's nice to fall asleep on the bus ride home. There's no need to worry about missing your stop, because everybody gets off at Forest Hills. You can read your book until you get too tired/nauseated to keep reading (which usually happens around the Dedham Mall, halfway through the trip from Norwood to Jamaica Plain), and just close your eyes and drift off. Lean your head against the glass. But be careful! Because it turns out that when you really fall asleep, your head will flop dramatically, loudly and painfully thwacking whatever hard object happens to be in it's trajectory. And if that object happens to be the emergency window opening handle... Let's just say that you won't be dozing too much for the remainder of the commute.
I ride the subway for one stop to get from the Forest Hills bus station to the Green St. stop, near which one can find my house. The train stops at Forest Hills and turns around. Everybody gets off, the doors open and close and open and close and the train goes in the opposite direction beeping and rumbling, like mechanical Ouroboros eating it's own tail or some sort of Moebius strip. Today there was a man, a poor crumpled man with a cane folded over on the seat after everybody else had cleared out of the train. The conductor (apparently notified of the man's presence) was trying to get him off of the train. The man smelled of alchohol and was incoherent; another passenger had to assist the conductor in getting him off the train. The passenger smiled at me when he got back in the car. "Life," he said, "I guess he wasn't always like that."
I watched the movie Capote this weekend. The thing that was most striking about Truman Capote, at least in the movie, was his absolute selfishness. He would say any lie to anybody for the sake of him or his book. He seemed incapable of casting anything in his life in a different light other than that which emanated from him and for him. His lack of compassion was startling, dealing as he was with inmates condemned to death, prisoners who had no clear idea of why they'd committed their crime.
I feel the same selfishness. I saw this man on the train, and was struck because the only thing I could think to do to help the situation at all was to help move this man to a cold bench outside in the T station. And I didn't even help with that. I watched. I have no idea what put that man in that situation, but I knew that something could be done, that I could do something to help it. Standing there carrying thousands of dollars worth of electronic gadgetry, the picture of privelage, and I can't even conceive of how I'd help somebody so far out of the light I cast.
A subway worker was cleaning the railings on the escalator stairs as I walked out of the train, one stop and one world later. He stood in the middle of the escalator, walking down as the treads moved up, not moving in real space, wiping the railing clean with his rag. It's a minor magical force that allows scenes like this to happen. If I had his job, cleaning the escalator railing would likely be my favorite part of the day.

Intelligence carries with it a burden. It's hardly an original thought, but it's something into which I've run lately. Intelligence. When you're able to see a bigger picture, you're burdened by having to consider it in all of your actions. If only you could see each issue as only having two sides, or better yet, one side. If only everything had one finite answer! If only a sort of universal truth were achievable for any single question! But alas, it is not to be so, and so those who can fathom that an issue might not be resolved, that terrorism isn't the fault of all non-Americans, whose origin is to be determined by those in power at any given point in time, that there are several ways of mitigating natural disaster, that there is no pro-life versus pro-choice. It's all much more subtle than that. Of course. I'm preaching to the choir.
Sensitivity makes you pay a price. I'm sensitive to other people. I think about other people driving on the road, how well they're doing, making up scenarios for what might be causing them to drive the way they drive. I think about other people on the subway. I can make headaches go away, I can absorb that pain. But I can't let go of it. I'm too sensitive, not tough enough, and it takes a toll. I have to learn now how not to care about everybody, how to not absorb the negative energy of others, for my own sake.
Emotional depth makes you pay a price. You can spend your whole life pulling people in, needing this and needing that from others, and it can work for you pretty well, with only the occasional heartbreak, for which we have many outlets in this society. But try sometime *not* holding on to people. Try sometime just loving without expecting anything in return. You can find that you had a lot of assumptions that don't hold true. Even if you know it's the right way to act, you can feel like you're taken advantage of, because being selfish and needy is so much easier and so much more frequently done.
Isn't it ironic that doing the right thing just paves the way for those doing wrong to do worse? You can't be an honest politician, because the dishonest ones will smear your image or worse faster than you can say "Paul Wellstone." You can't love others freely, because those who love with strings attached will move in some day and want to take all of that love away from you, keep it for themselves. You can't address problems with multiple solutions in mind, because those who see in black and white will be more present in the debate with their extreme views. It's hard to tread fine lines. We're all treading such fine lines.

Bikes in Boston

Did I mention that I do my commute on a bike? At least, right now. As long as I can, that's the plan. it's faster and cheaper than the bus (well, maybe not actually that much cheaper, with bike maintenance included). In fact, provided that there's not a huge pile of snow around, everywhere in Boston is faster to get to by bike. Faster than the "T" (Metro). Faster than a car. Ever heard of Boston drivers? Massholes? Ringing any bells? So I'm really psyched about getting a bike.
Today I managed to get a nail embedded fully into my back tire on the ride home. Fortunately, I got the flat next to the one bike shop on the eleven-mile ride home. So I just walked in, and they say "Nice bike. Wanna borrow some tools and buy a tire and fix that flat?" Sweet. I was back on the road in 15 minutes. Which is nice, because the alternative is to wait for the bus, and go home dejected that my biking master plan has failed. Instead I just strolled in 15 minutes "late" with a story.
This bike I'm riding used to have a garage-door opener on it, back when it was at the apex of suburban bike glory.

Musicians have a certain power to insinuate themselves into your life. You could meet a guitarist, say, who happens to know a song that you love. And then he plays it for you, and you're hooked. That song has taken on new meaning for you. That song is now firmly attached to whatever it is he meant when he played it for you. Was he looking you in the eyes? How did that make you feel? You remember that every time you hear that song. Musicians have a power, when we mean to.
Sometimes you play a song, and you really see it when you're singing and you really mean it when you're playing. And sometimes you're just going through the motions. You can tell when a musician means it, because that's when you're paying attention. When they don't mean it, that's when you're sipping your drink, looking for somebody interesting to talk to.
When you write a song for somebody, you have that same power as the cover song, but with greater potential. That power to do harm or good. But you only have that power if the subject knows that the song is about them. It's amazing how a song that you thought was so personal as to be non-applicable to any new situation can be taken out of context.
I guess there should be a point to all of this. Nope. No point. Just an observation. Point withheld.

people

i've been thinking about holding people close. a lot of people in my life, myself included, have gone through some sort of dramatic personal life change lately, and it's typically got a lot to do with breaking up with other people. everybody's doing it. these things come in waves (why) they come in waves is a whole other blog entry).
i've been told that a lot of hurt in life comes from holding people too close. you hold people too close to you, and it inevitably hurts you during those times when they lean away from you. and everybody's got their threshold for how far that leaning away is. that's beside the point. the point is, the closer you hold on to a person, try to draw them into your life, the greater your potential to be upset if change occurs and they don't want to be with you anymore.
there's one thought. everything changes. no two people are ever going to end up the way they started. you have to deal with change throughout any relationship. change happens everywhere in life, which is ironic considering the human tendency to try to organize the inherent entropy of the universe. even energy tends toward randomness. how can you fight with energy?
but there's the other side of the coin. commitment. there comes a time with certain people where you can't afford to or simply don't want to have them be some floaty presence in your life anymore. you want them to be a big presence. in some cases, the only or the biggest big presence in your life. you want, in short, to draw them in.
but commitment and attachment aren't necessarily the same thing. you can be committed to somebody, but not require them to be in your presence, or require that they be so thorougly thinking about you 100% of the time. it's something that maybe we all know, certainly something that i know, but something that you constantly need to remind yourself is the case. because in my opinion, to have a successful commitment, you need to be exclusive, but not overly attached. it's a fine line to tread. a fine line indeed. at some point, you have to acknowledge that things will change between the two of you. energy tends that way. if nothing else, your perception of the situation will change as time goes on. little things will start to nag you, or big picture things will come to light and make you all the more wondrous at who you've got in your life.
the answer, then, is to create an environment where change is acceptable, and you change with those people who are close to you. you don't abandon them when you're tired, and you don't ignore them if they're trying to tell you something, verbal or otherwise. not if you're committed. but you don't close yourself off to change either. some of that change is going to be intentional, and some of it is going to be gradual and subliminal. when you're committed, you're going to end up in a new place from where you started. and that's what's beautiful about commitment: you get to experience your whole life and know that someone's going to be there to see it with you.
this makes less sense in every paragraph. maybe some other time.

Road Trip

So I talked about moving in to Boston. Well, the latest turn in the move-in was that last week (or was it two weeks ago?), I was going to stop by Potsdam for a weekend, grab a bit of stuff and come back down to Boston. Then my mom was like, "why not stay longer and drive your stuff home in my car?" I was like "Sure." Then my dad went "Why not grab some of the stuff for your apartment that I've got in Ottawa?" I was all, "All right." Then I remembered that I was supposed to go to a wedding in Milwaukee a day or so after I was supposed to come back to Boston. So I asked mom, "Mom, how's about I take your car to Boston, then drive it to Milwaukee and then back to Potsdam?" She was totally down.
I just got back from that road trip. Boston to Potsdam in the car with Danielle Cornett, sister Renee, and Becca D., all high school friends who happened to be going back home from Boston. Hang out in Potsdam. Get myself to Ottawa. Hang out with dad. Drive stuff down to Potsdam in dad's car. Drive all of my stuff to Boston in mom's car. Turn around the next morning and head toward Milwaukee. Stop at a friend's in Columbus. Wedding in Milwaukee. Back to Mansfield, Ohio. Then to Poughkeepsie, NY for a few days. Drive up to Ottawa, Canada, and then to Potsdam. Then take a bus back to Boston. I just got back.
So, it's been a relaxing lil' break for me. There are good pictures of it all, but I didn't take them, so you'll have to wait for them to show up at alexmarvar.com or something before you can see them. Aw, heck, maybe I'll post a couple... Later.
Congratulations to Kjerstin and Adam on their beautiful wedding, by the way. Love you guys.

The Neighborhood

I live in Jamaica Plain, Boston. That could mean one of a million things. That could mean that I live in a mansion on a hill surrounded by trees or next to a pond. That could mean that I live in a Dominican/Cuban semi-ghetto. That could mean that I live in a hippy crunchy organic vegan co-op. Walking around here is a study in neighborhoods within neighborhoods, and just how small the boundaries between one and the next can be.
Today, I walked over to Franklin Park, which is about half a kilometer away from here. I leave my house, which is in a predominantly Spanish-speaking, not-too-wealthy little sub-section. Cross over Washington Street onto a street called Peter Parley, and the houses get big and ornate, full of white folks. Across a street and you're in a different world. The streets are narrow and windy, and there are more trees. Everything is more closed in. Then I get to Franklin Park, which is sketchily maintained at best. But it's gigantic. So gigantic, in fact, that I almost missed the fact that there's a giant fairground set up in it, minutes from my house. A big big fairground. With Ferris wheels and booths and a stage and everything. The rest of the park is largely wooded, with these boulders and piles of stones everywhere. It's kind of fascinating. But then you turn around and it's the same thing in reverse.
I live in a house of music. The landlords are in a band called Lovewhip (which has a website you can google in your spare time). They have a recording studio in the basement. My roommate goes to the NEC, but I think I'm treading on familiar ground here. I think I just wrote about this. I'll skip it for now.
More neighborhood. There's a subway stop minutes from my house, and another just a few more minutes in the other direction. Downtown Jamaica Plain is about fifteen minutes' walk from here. I get wireless internet. I found a desk on the front sidewalk. Life is good.

Apartment Update

I walked home this evening, and found that the upstairs neighbor is moving out, and left his desk that is perfect for my apartment out on the sidewalk right in front of the house. So now I've got a perfect desk, and all I had to do was walk it in from the sidewalk. That's totally bitchin', if I do say so myself. I'm going to try to get my camera working and possibly take some pictures right now!

Boston, Baby!

I moved in to my apartment in Boston on Sunday. Yes! It's really great. It's within walking distance of two metro stops; depending on whether I want to go downtown or not, I can choose one or the other. Sweet. It's a three-story house, I'm on the first floor with Tim from Macalester, who plays trombone and upright bass and goes to the NEC (New England Conservatory). The second story is more musicians, who are moving out soon I understand, and the third floor is the landlord, who's also a musician in a band called Lovewhip. It's funny music. They have a recording studio in the basement. This is great.
I still haven't really moved in. I have nothing but a suitcase full of clothes, some books, and a guitar amp. It's daunting. I suppose I'll get my digital camera up and running and then post some pictures on my web page.
Oh yeah! I changed the web page, also. If you want to download the latest album, go to latiflearned.com. If you want to go to my exceedingly outdated pictures site, go to Opus 1. If you want to see a page I made for a friend, that includes a lot of pictures of me, head over to alexmarvar.com.

latiflearned.com

My web page is now at a (more or less) permanent site. Head over to latiflearned.com to see my (more or less out of date) web page that's not a blog. Sweet. I swear that there will be more development on this in the coming months. Eventually, it'll have my music and not be at all about me, personally. but more about my invented personality Latif Learned who plays guitar and sings.
I'm moving to Boston in a few days. Maybe just maybe I'll take pictures and then put them up on my latiflearned.com. Word.

I Showed Up Again on the Web

Explo put me on the website again. Also, I'm told that if you Google image Search me that I actually show up, thanks to CosmoGIRL! Thanks CosmoGIRL!, for making my web presence that much stronger. The front page of an image search! Sweet.
In other news, New Haven is hot as hell. Today is the first time in three weeks that it's been below 90 and not like a billion percent humidity. Darn! I like the heat. Although it limits your wardrobe options. Survival first, looks second. Ummmm... That's all.

Def Leppard

The one-armed drummer from Def Leppard is going to be wearing a t-shirt designed by my brother Ryan in the next issue of Spin Magazine. It was originally going to be somebody in Death Cab for Cutie, but now it's Def Leppard. But if you're cockney, the first word of each band is pronounced the same way. I never thought in a million years that I would be in any way, even the most periphally, connected to the one-armed drummer from Def Leppard. This is like a vicarious dream come true for me. Amazing!
Go see Ryan's T-Shirt Designs. Check back at this site in a couple of weeks. It'll be more complete then. You might even be able to buy a t-shirt on it then.

Go check this out.
What a crazy fun summer!

Summer

It's summer. I'm in New Haven again. The problem with sporadically blogging is getting back into the swing of it. What do you say? Does anybody even read this anymore? Probably not. No problem.
I'm at Exploration Summer Programs again this summer, working as the computer guy again. This is good. So good, in fact, that I'm going to be working for them full-time starting in September. Right now I'm just one of the summer employees. So that means move to Boston (Jamaica Plain, of course), have a salary and health insurance once again, pay off some of that impending college debt, put money toward retirement. The plan is to move in to a house full of musicians in a neighborhood full of musicians with musicians and record more albums and generally be a better musician in my non-computer-guy time. Then I want to bike across the country. Interested? In two or three years? Give me a call. Or email.
I got a new laptop. This is a real boon for me, because it's the first time since early in the France experience that I've been able to keep all my thoughts/music/data in one place, which means that things like blogging and recording music and taking photos and what-have-you are much easier. Its keyboard lights up in the dark. It makes me happy.
So yes, Boston. Music. Computers. What you would have guessed if you were guessing, basically.