The CD Is Almost Done – HA!

Every musician must face a great crisis. Namely, now that the record is completed, what do I do with it?

We spend all that time focusing on getting it finished. And then? Then we put those boxes of CDs under the bed and lie about how many we’ve sold.

Some people lie more than others. Some people increase the amount of their lie three times within the course of one evening.

Of course, some of us send them out to hordes of two-watt radio stations. Because it’s a good way to get rid of the damn things.

Some of us give them away to people who don’t listen to them. But it feels good to think someone might be listening. Just don’t ask anyone how they liked any particular track.

Some of us wonder why we bother with any of it. And then we do it all again.

Mixing It Up

So we started mixing the new CD last night at Trax East. What does that mean? Theoretically, it means we’re “mixing” all the individual sounds we’ve recorded in the best possible way—so the drums aren’t too loud, the vocals aren’t too low, etc. But that’s not what we were doing. No, we were mostly using the computer to fix all the stuff we screwed up.

Modern technology has made recording with tape obsolete. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE the sound of tape. But here’s the problem—once a musician uses a computer to record, he or she isn’t going back to tape. Because the computer is a lot cheaper (no expensive tape to buy). Also, it allows you to easily manipulate all your mistakes. I don’t often say something is better than sex—but OH BABY! OH! OH! OH! AHHHHHHHHH!

Really, the new CD, Big Mouth, sounds pretty good.

THE GIG AT BUDDIE’S
Bill played with me at Buddie’s Tavern on Saturday night, giving the world a chance to hear something somewhat like the new CD. “The world” consisted of about 15 people, but it wasn’t bad. Bill’s thunder rods were thundering, and I was screaming, etc. In another set, Wayne (the owner’s son) played some smoking guitar. The guy is great for sixteen. Tony Sprayberry also played. He was great, too (Tony, you’re too hard on yourself). And Grau jammed and generally sounded spectacular.

Keith Beck was there, too, and he ate some chicken fingers. I assume he played and sounded excellent but Jill and I snuck out before that happened. Also, Bullet Train was there, and I’m sure they were exceptional as well. See what you missed? So come on down next time.

A GOOD FLAPJACK

WHOOSH! Billy felt the blade fly past his left ear. A bad start to another day.

He glanced around his kitchen. Because obviously someone in the room didn’t like him. And he was right.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” he shouts.

“YOU BASTARD!” she screams.

Damn. Had he forgotten her birthday? Had he cheated on her again with that fish-feeder down at Seaworld?

“Honey, I’m sorry,” he says from a crouched position. “I just forgot. And, uh, she’s nothing to me—she just tosses the trout.”

“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?” Her eyes are like spinning marbles. “I DON’T EVEN KNOW YOU!”

He pauses. Is she being dramatic? Is she saying I don’t know the person you’ve become? Or does she really not know me? Certainly, she doesn’t look familiar.

He smiles, and straightens up a bit. “Yes, I suppose we don’t really know one another… I mean, in a deeper sense… I mean, in the way two drifting souls might meet in a lonely, churning sea… I mean, uh, who are you, anyway?”

The anger in her eyes begins to fade. And why not? She’s in the wrong house, trying to assassinate the wrong guy—but he’s pretty hot. And more or less naked. She flips back her strands of windy black hair, and relaxes her heaving chest.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I thought you were someone else.”

He grins, and puffs out his pectorals. “Well, I’m sure it was an honest mistake.” He motions toward a nearby frying pan. “Would you like some pancakes?”

She sighs, and sees fireworks igniting, and hears the pounding rhythm of advancing explosions.

“Yes,” she says. “I’d like that a lot. There’s nothing I love more than a good flapjack.”

Interview With A Dollar Bill

A new study shows that 90% of U.S. currency contains traces of cocaine. I thought I’d interview a dollar bill and see what he had to say for himself. My questions are in bold black. His responses are in a greedy shade of green.

So, you’re a coke-head?

SNORT! SNORT! It’s possible. Are you concerned?

Yes. Cocaine is a highly addictive drug. Does it really make you feel good?

Sure, I feel great. Except for some sweating, and some vomiting, and an occasional stroke.

Seriously, why are you so covered in coke?

Seriously, it’s the least of my problems… People tell horrible lies because of me, they commit acts of violence because of me, they cause miserable amounts of heartbreak because of me. I’m the scourge of the world.

Wow. So do you feel a lot of animosity?

No. I’m a very popular scourge. Because people love to buy stuff.

Okay… So what happens now?

I suppose I’ll crawl back into the cash machine and snort myself stupid.

Thanks for your time.

SNORT! SNORT! Don’t mention it.

New York City – THE MET

Jill and I went to New York City on Friday. She wanted to see the Francis Bacon exhibit at The Metropolitan Museum of Art, and I just wanted to walk around.

Unfortunately, I forgot how many people are already walking around in New York. What a pain in the ass. Every time I’d take a step, there would be somebody in my way. It was like a big, bobbing ocean of eyes and heads. It was an obstacle course made of humans. And it was hot.

For some reason we decided to walk from Penn Station on 32nd Street to the museum, which is on 82nd Street. I’d like to say we saw a lot of interesting stuff along the way, but we didn’t. Canyons of tall towers and swarms of yellow taxis aren’t that interesting when you’re sweating fat bullets. Finally, we reached our destination.

The MET is big. The San Diego Museum of Art could be a broom closet in this place. And that art museum we saw in downtown Austin, well, that could be a lavatory. Not a big one, either. But is bigger better?

Of course it is. Go check it out sometime. But don’t be a dumb-ass—take the subway.

You can view photos from our trip HERE.

Les Paul

Les Paul died. Les created the Gibson Les Paul guitar (sort of).

Les also invented multi-track recording, an achievement that cannot be overstated. Thanks to Les Paul’s invention, musicians could suddenly screw up quite a bit and still sound great. Nowadays, of course, computers allow musicians to screw up everything and still sound great, and for that we’re thankful—because some of us screw up quite a bit. Uh, hey, did I mention my new CD, Big Mouth, will be finished soon? Okay, I’m getting distracted, here… The point is that Les was a MUSICIAN, first and and foremost, and for that WE SALUTE HIM.

So long, Les.

Interview With A Glacier

A new study shows that glaciers are melting far faster than scientists originally predicted. So I thought I’d interview a glacier and see what he had to say. My questions are in bold black. His responses are in frosty blue.

So, I hear you’re shrinking.

No shit, shit-head. I’m disappearing like cocaine in a crack-house.

Uh, right… There are people who think your plight is a bad sign for planet Earth.

Oh, I’m glad a few people feel that way. Too bad the rest of you are busy sticking a hot coal of pollution up my ass.

Well, there are some who really care—

Some? Some? I would think the end of your civilization would inspire a few more of you to take action. Because when you’re gone, you’re gone—I mean, when’s the last time you saw a fucking dinosaur walking around?

You’re an angry little block of ice.

Yeah, well, I used to be a lot bigger. And you’ll be angry too when your cities are underwater.

Hopefully, it won’t come to that.

Row, row, row your boat, motherfucker.

Five Years From Now

Do you ever wonder where you’ll be in five years? I’m kind of hoping I’ll be on another planet—someplace where I’m not disappointed by everything. But I know this won’t happen because I’ll always find reasons to be angry and disappointed.

“Man, I wish this place had more oxygen.”

“Hey, I wish this place had more beer.”

“It’s gonna be hard to hang myself without gravity.”

I’ll probably be sitting right in this same chair, complaining as usual.

BIG

I emerged from the cobwebs of the underworld clean and pure and bright, like a flower rising from a pool of quicksand. And I was five hundred feet tall. I was absolutely the biggest thing around.

I watched the little people scurry at my feet. I tried not to step on them, except for that one guy—I still remembered the way he used to hog all the washers in the laundry room of the apartment complex where I’d once lived.

I walked downtown with all the subtlety of an earthquake. I was surging with the power of my immense size, and I felt the jealous hatred of my former friends. And I didn’t care.

But as the day wore on, a sadness descended upon me like a pile of rolling boulders. Where would I buy clothes? And where would I find a pizza big enough to satisfy my hunger?