"I'm not a workaholic. I'm a work slut."

Saw Henry Rollins last Friday night downtown. Goddamn...what an awesome show. Tickets were $35, the doors opened at 7, and he was scheduled to hit the stage at 8. At 8:02, he steps out on stage, grabs the mic, and off we go. As if to punctuate the act, he immediately vows that he does not want to waste one nanosecond of our time. Just like that, he puts overblown celebrities to shame who force their fans to shell out $100+ per show, then only deign to show up as they like, often an hour or more late. Fuck 'em all. Rollins is the real deal.

The man remains a coiled mass of caffeine, testosterone, wit and intelligence. Even at 51, he is a sight to behold; despite wearing the most workmanlike of clothes, he white-knuckles the microphone and doesn't let go for the next two and a half hours. He rocks back and forth in an athletic stance as if to prepare himself for an unknown onslaught. Sweat starts to drip consistently from his bared elbow only five minutes in. And the show really is just him and a microphone. No table. No chair. No water bottle. No life-soothing accoutrements, no creature comforts, nothing.

When Rollins talks, you best be paying attention. He starts the show talking at a frenetic pace, fueled by adrenaline and coffee (I'd imagine), and barely stops for a breath. I don't think I heard him say "um" once the entire time. And this includes a stunning verbatim recital of a speech a young Abraham Lincoln gave back in the early 1830s. He didn't even pause in the slightest during said speech when someone in the front row accidentally shattered their drink glass.

And you know he's gonna spill some amazing shit. The title of the tour is "Capitalism," since it hits every US capital between now and election night, where he ends in DC; obviously, he went to town on Republicans of all sorts. He described Ann Romney's RNC speech as being given by someone who was trying to squeeze watermelons through her tear ducts. He brought up reading Dubya's autobiography ("I read it for you," as if he were Jesus dying for our sins), as well as Cheney's; apparently Cheney has led a fascinating life, but is the most unimaginative guy alive, so sez Hank. And he feels badly for Republicans - he truly believes that no one would vote for Romney with any semblance of enthusiasm, he's such a weak candidate. They're all voting against Obama, and Romney just happens to be the guy to vote for. (He admitted that we had a moment in our not so distant past where Democrats had a similar scenario...remember that snoozefest Kerry?)

But the political stuff dies down soon enough, and we get treated to the fun stuff we really came for, what really makes Rollins the phenomenon he is: hyperbolic stories about his wild life. He brings up his life back in DC, hanging with Ian MacKaye and growing up around punk. As a long-time Minor Threat fan, I was hanging on every word Hank said about seeing some of their first shows...in their own living room. He also told stories about his excitement seeing Led Zeppelin for the first time ("He's taking out the bow! Just like on 'The Song Remains The Same!'"), but what really got me was his story of seeing the Ramones. Smashed, along with 800 other kids, into a Great White-like venue meant to hold maybe 500, he found himself withering in the anoxic, stifling environment, standing this close to Dee Dee Ramone, trying to lap up every drop of sweat that came off Dee Dee's nose to keep from dehydrating.

He also brings up his recent travels. Documentary work for National Geographic took him to India, where he was videoed drinking cow's urine, which apparently is considered by some to be a panacea. He also travelled to south Kentucky to witness a charismatic church service, poisonous snakes and all. Then he went to Haiti, where he befriended a whole shantytown by bringing them - by request - tons of soap and soccer balls. Needless to say, the guy leads one insanely fascinating life.

Oh yeah...the title quote? That's his MO. He will take any work, anywhere he can get it. He's slung ice cream at Baskin-Robbins. He's destroyed hundreds of rats (by order of his bosses) at NIH when they all got a tremendously contagious, fatal disease. Don't need to say anything about his musical career or spoken-word tours. He's starred in a number of B-grade movies. He's hosted his own talk show. He still runs a weekly radio show. He maintains a blog. He's a prolific writer. And probably a dozen (at least) other jobs/occupations I can't remember off the top. A work slut, indeed.

If you are lucky enough to live in or near a state capital, do yourself a favor. Get a ticket. It'll be the best show you see all year.

Like a hug from baby Jesus.

Over at dinner at the parents' place tonight. Fairly low-key affair, me and the missus (oops...that should be me and Mr. Man), also low-key celebrating my aunt's 70th birthday about 3 weeks early, 'cause that's how she rolls. Flew into town today, driving to Santa Fe with Mom for the week...sounds fun.

After dinner, I walked outside quickly, and saw a "MITT" bumper sticker on my dad's car. As bumper stickers go, it was classy...traditional masculine font, three silver stars against a navy background. The "MITT" didn't surprise me in the slightest; the bumper sticker did, simply because the parents are VERY country club conservative, and bumper stickers are simply not done. And I reacted the same way my sister did when I unwittingly told her that her eldest shares the exact same name as Bill & Hillary's daughter: I suddenly felt profoundly sick.

Fortunately, we had no political discussions tonight; if we did, they would have ended immediately with me declaring that no self-respecting logical gay man would EVER, EVER vote for Romney. (And let me tell you how much of a mindfuck it has been this election season driving around town and seeing two - TWO! - cars with the following bumper stickers on them: 1) HRC 2) "I'm GAY and I VOTE." 3) ROMNEY - Believe in America. 4) the Gadsden flag - yep, the "don't tread on me" flag. Those boys have some serious issues.) But that bumper sticker...UGH.

Although I am no Republican, I do believe the Republican party is shooting itself in the foot by going all anti-gay and writing fiercely homophobic language into its platform. I mean, c'mon...to put it bluntly, sucking cock and adoring Ayn Rand are not mutually exclusive. You can be into fiscal conservatism and hot man-on-man sex simultaneously. (Obviously, the same applies to women who love their ladies and the bootstraps they pulled themselves up with.) The sooner the Republican party pulls its collective head out of its ass and realizes this, the better off it'll be. But until then, they're hurting themselves terribly...a fact I'm not really boo-hooing over at this point.

I have to say, though, that my acute attack of nausea was effectively halted by this beauty. Heh. Let's see Romney try to 'splain that one for the next 50 days, shall we? Who's got the popcorn?

Gotta move on...

Blogging the morning after seems like such a great idea in the middle of a kick-ass night. But actually during the morning after? Won't say I'm hungover, but my mind's bleary enough that any excitement that could have been transmitted last night in crystalline detail is now stuck in a light fog of acetaldehyde, and...oh well. Just a few things that made last night awesome.

 

THIS. How could I have gone through over 37 1/2 years of my life without seeing this? I stood on the dance floor, staring at the screen, with the pleasure centers of my brain lighting up like the nuclear impacts map on WarGames. Random absurdity is practically my trade. Also, THE RAMONES. If this is your first time seeing this, then my work here is done.

Also, this. I have gone years and years without hearing this...to the point where I couldn't even remember who did this version. Gotta say, for a suburban kid in the '80s, Pseudo Echo was a pretty damned cool name...and Aussies to boot. Really shoulda checked them out more back in the day. And don't these kids look like they're having a blast?

So yeah, the music in the '80s room at the local big gay club was particularly awesome last night. Great to see good friends out, too...more than usual.

All this is to say...gosh, I'm losing some enthusiasm to get in these big workouts now. Squatting 230 is TOUGH, ya know? Much easier to blog and kvetch and procrastinate.

Every day, a grape licks a friendly cow.

Note to self: when the office has a 3-day weekend, don't bother keeping your Saturday mornings open! Lucky me, I'm the only person in the office today, and that was basically to drive down here (45 minute commute) for a 15 minute visit. Ugh. So now I get in my workout, and wonder what the fuck to do for the rest of the day. Mr. Man is in New Orleans for the weekend (I KNOW...but apparently Isaac didn't do a tremendous amount of damage to the French Quarter, where he is, so.) and I'm here, apparently bereft and adrift in a sea of what-the-fuck-do-I-do-nowitude. So here ya go...your solipsism for the day. Oh, and happy September.

- Unfriended about 125 people in one fell swoop about a month ago. Including some erstwhile choir girls with whom I have gotten along in the past. The vast majority of these were not due to anger or illwill. Just an acknowledgement that they aren't really a huge part of my life, or they post really annoying political shit all the time (from any part of the spectrum), or their posts, despite merely intending to be thought-provoking, resemble interview questions from hell (imagine if Stephen Covey and Dolores Umbridge were to have demon spawn). Yes, I have standards that are perhaps too high relative to the average FB user. But seriously, what sense does it make to have FB "friends" that are good for nothing but a cyberpoke once every few months?

- Love the bee commentary? Miss the bee commentary? It's gone from this here screed forevermore. You'll find it here, along with some more cerebral stuff. It may help lay the foundation for a secondary career for me, and if there's something I don't need to sully a reputation, it's intentional misspellings for effect, immediate references to "what-the-fuck-do-I-do-nowitude" and the like.

- Young coconut. To be specific, the stuff by Philippine. I picked some up at Costco recently, intrigued. Good GOD, people...if you like coconut, you HAVE to get summa this crack. May have a bit too much sugar in it to be healthy, but then again...14 grams of fiber per 1/3 cup serving? AWESOME! (I have heard, however, the sodium metabisulfite-preserved stuff is awful, and one should seek out the sulfur dioxide-laced goods at all costs. Yeah...we're not talking health food here.)

- "You have to have a look!" So sez one semi-fictional Maria Callas in a fabulous play, "Master Class." "And if you don't have one...get one!" Kinda makes sense to me. I hate to say it, but I may have drunk the "branding" Kool-Aid a bit. Lots of successful people have a "look," whether or not they realize it and whether or not it works for them. Suze Orman's earrings and swooped bangs, Donald Trump's unfortunate toupee and boxy suits, Paul Ryan's overgrown-Munster appearance, Michelle Obama's KICKASS style across the board (Jackie who?)...you get the picture. So I've been trying to cultivate said "look."

- Must write. No...must go to Starbucks to get my coffee before my workout. No...must eat, I'm starving. No...must read. Wait...what am I doing here at work, anyhow? Wasn't I done with my appointment an hour ago? GAWD. Procrastination 1, me 0.

The broad monster clouds the novice.

More rando. You know you were hungry for it.

There is no Muppet Movie soundtrack anymore. Sad trombone. Or at least, it's out of print, so you can find it...um...on vinyl. I'm not dissing on vinyl. The point is: who, besides the committed audiophiles and accomplished DJs of our time, has a turntable?
This album was absolutely formative to me. I'd listen to it for hours on end, though I turned my nose up at the instrumental version of "Never Before, Never Again" (and for that matter, the sung version warn't all that much better). But I'd listen to "Movin' Right Along" over and over again, even though there was a crack in the record. It would skip about 6 seconds in, and the entire song was over in about 30 seconds. Always made me laugh uncontrollably. And then there was the heartbreaking "I'm Going To Go Back There Someday." This one deserves a retroactive Grammy or Oscar for Best Song of 1979. (It just barely beats out "Rainbow Connection.") This, coupled with learning how to ski at Buttermilk all those years ago, made for some of my best childhood memories.
Whatever can we do to persuade the powers that be that the world is not complete without this soundtrack?

StormdTheCastle. I thought I was concerned about my appearance? Nothing even close. This one is mildly amusing, to be sure...a guy who's extremely into himself, his workouts, and how he looks. I mean, who would document a 63/100 inch gain in calf circumference? How would you even do that? He does admit he has body dysmorphic disorder, so he's conscious of it. And speaking of BDD...

Noodles and Beef. All kinds of adorable, amirite? His happy happy joy joy appearance and attitude does grate, but at least for awhile, you can't help but be amused. Besides...muscles. And a great smile. Yeah, I'm shallow. I own it. (As for the BDD, he admits to it, too. I'm not projecting.)

The Power of No. I have had multiple sources tell me over the past few years that I am profoundly negative. And part of me protests: "I'm really not that negative! I just have a certain view of how my life should be, and I do not want extraneous bullshit to affect that view!" If you have a small "yes" inside of you, you sometimes need to protect it with a wall of no's. (God, that sounds nauseatingly "self-help lite.")
I thought this little phrase would be a good title for a book. Until I saw that there are at least three other books with that same title. The one subtitled "How to Keep Blowhards and Bozos at Bay" seems amusing; I may have to pick it up.

Music to mindlessly destroy yourself by.

Or: Perfect songs for lifting up heavy things and putting them back down again repeatedly, grunting all the while.

Far Behind - Social Distortion: Mike Ness has one of the most perfect punk voices ever. Raw, muscular, sounding like a buzzsaw welded with testosterone and titanium...it cuts through you and doesn't give a shit. This brilliant fuck-off from SD's greatest hits plays nearly like a pop song, so conventional is its construction. But that's not a bad thing. Sonically, it's an awesome force of nature, jumping out of the speakers to grab you and smash you to the ground.

New Day Rising - Hüsker Dü: I defy you not to feel pummeled by this song...and that's just during the first five seconds of martial drums at warp speed, before the metallic guitars roar over you like a sonic wave. Punk as punk gets. Lyrics? We don't need no goddamn lyrics! Just howl the title over and over again. Primal.

Meantime - Helmet: Yeah, the whole album. I bow to the great Michael Azerrad, who encapsulated it thusly: "A marvel of precisely channeled aggression, Meantime could be the soundtrack to the mind of an NFL linebacker." Damn straight. Also, back in the day of grunge, depression, and Seattle, these guys provided a kick-ass retort to kids considering casting off this mortal coil: "Die young is far too boring these days."

Long Snake Moan/Meet Ze Monsta - PJ Harvey: These behemoths off of To Bring You My Love (WAAY recommended, by the way) will pulverize you. PJ simply gives a knowing "mm-hmm" at the beginning of Long Snake Moan just before a wall of guitar smashes you and doesn't let up until the bitter end. The banshee wails don't hurt, either. Then on Meet Ze Monsta, a mechanical goose-stomp provides the force behind some of the most muscular, forced singing you'll ever hear. You gotta hear these.

Master of Puppets - Metallica: Obvious, true. But there's a reason it's obvious: it fucking rocks. Can't believe I lived over 30 years of my life before hearing this one.

Thieves - Ministry: God bless Wax Trax for bringing us this immortal piece of derangement. Here, Ministry nursed its last vestiges of industrial before it fell fully into the sludge of metal below. Distorted yelling, exhortations to "kill, kill, kill," and a rhythm section that, at its best, provided the beat to deranged goose-stepping Nazi soldiers on speed.

The Social Network

Mark Zuckerberg must hate The Social Network. He's portrayed as a virtual walking pathology: the monomaniacal, reclusive computernik with an almost autistic and ADD-like view of the world around him. Even Temple Grandin - no stranger to the autism spectrum herself - states that if the movie is indeed accurate, Zuckerberg may well have Asperger's syndrome. (I myself am more skeptical about this judgment.)

Zuckerberg is an asshole. By second 31 of the movie, that point's driven home with the force of a sledgehammer. You want to throttle this guy who is giving his near-ex verbal whiplash; he speaks at an auctioneer's pace and switches topics mid-sentence multiple times while studiously avoiding eye contact. Worse, all he cares about is getting into a Harvard final club and using said near-ex as a means to an end. But when he insults her lesser (Boston University) education, that's the last straw. She calls him an asshole and stomps off. Cue Zuckerberg's descent into a bloghole, wherein he tears her apart online. (And, of course, writes the code for the predecessor of Facebook, posts the website, and enjoys the fallout as thousands of students vote for which girl is hotter than the next, crashing Harvard's servers hours later.)

And throught the rest of the movie, Zuckerberg (or more accurately, Jesse Eisenberg) does little to change this view. His disregard for others around him other than as a financial or technological means to creating Facebook is relentless; his push toward success unbothered by the personal details around him. And when he goes through hours of depositions, his contempt for the opposing lawyers is witheringly heartless. Only toward the end of the movie does he begin to show a heart; his CFO and best friend is, courtesy of Napster creator Sean Parker (and unknown to Zuckerberg), suddenly reduced to virtually having no financial interest in Facebook, and when Zuckerberg finds out, he looks stunned. And, of course, he still has a soft spot in his heart for the girl who crushed him at the beginning of the movie, approaching her months later in hopes of making amends. (She flatly rejects him, of course.)

So why's the movie so amazing? I see it as a fascinating profile of the man and the circumstances surrounding the rise of perhaps the most pervasive cultural force today. The guy has vision...relentless vision. He follows it, picks up opportunities on a moment's notice, does what he has to to support his vision, and assiduously protects and supports the people who work assiduously for him. (If they're busy, he says they're "wired in," with the implication that they are not to be disturbed by anything.) Facebook is his baby (regardless of what the Winklevi twins say), and he will defend it to the death. Is Zuckerberg an asshole? Ennh...I'm not so sure that's up to me to say. I do find it interesting, though, that he is portrayed as such nearly the entire movie, yet once it's wrapped up, I find him more admirable than not. Maybe the anti-social intellectual side of me resonates with him...someone who was so true to himself that regardless of whether he ended up hurting people, he saw his vision come to fruition.

The best years of your life (or something...) (part 2)

Long overdue, but here goes: what I'd tell myself back in 10th grade:

-- (redacted to protect yours truly, for whom 10th grade was a tremendously harrowing year.)

-- Fer the love o’ Christ, simple speech wasn’t stressful enough? You have to go for DEBATE? I can’t stress this enough: get out while you can. It’s gonna flatten you this year, and you’re gonna deal with repercussions that’ll last for years.

-- Look, I’m with you on growing your bangs out. It’s a good look. But maybe just try the layered look in back just once in the meantime. Just once. No, it won’t make you look gay. And if you don't believe me once you see it, well go ahead and grow your hair back out.

-- Ah. Welcome to the joys of bronchitis. Enjoy hacking up a lung for the next three months.

-- (two months later): See? What'd I tell ya? Listen to that young doc fresh out of residency tell you to "get some sleep." Apparently, listening to your body wasn't cutting it. Feeling your shoulders actually boil with anger and stress while agonizing over American literature wasn't enough to tell you to STOP already. Nor was listening to this while hacking and coughing yourself to sleep at night. So SLEEP already. Doctor's orders.

-- Be careful with the Silver Skating Dame, there. Yes, she’s totally cool, and she’s rockin’ your world, but you know what? You’re rockin’ her world about a hundred times as much. You have no idea. And when she finally says, “Well, because I love you,” please try to think up something classy to say, unexpected though this revelation may be to you. Thoughtful silence for a bit is even acceptable. DON’T drop the phone and say, “Oh shit.” That’s the last thing anyone wants to hear when they open up their heart to you. And someone as awesome as SSD deserves much, much better.

-- Welcome to choir. I know you did it just to get a credit out of the way. And those shoulder rubs before singing are pretty nice, ain't? Well, trust me when I say that your life is going to shift dramatically for the better now. And yes, leaving journalism was the right move. Holy CRAP was it the right move.

-- Oh, and on top of all this, swim team!? Holy Mary, you really are turning masochism into an art form. Can't you just go easy on yourself and instead...I dunno...lift some light weights here and there, eat better, and...oh, God, I'm sounding like a broken record...SLEEP.

-- Congratulations on making it into the honors choir. And get ready to really enjoy life and school next year. You deserve it after somehow surviving hell this year.

Inspiration from Henry Rollins.

I'ma sit back and let my man Hank tell his story. Take it away, Hank.

Why not go to Europe and sing?

Just got back from a whirlwind tour of central Europe, as part of one awesome choir. Salzburg, Vienna, Budapest, and Prague. All amazing cities. How did this happen? Well, as it turns out, I was courted by a local guy on Growlr (look it up, kids) with whom I shared a big love of choral music. He happened to sing in this group that was going to Europe in June. Trouble was, not everyone could go, so they were recruiting from the outside. Thus concluded, for all intents and purposes, the extent of my arm-twisting.

Random thoughts...

• Jet lag. Not so bad going over there. Particularly considering I got maybe 20 minutes full sleep on the way over...and that was with the benefit of 3 mg melatonin. It's this coming back thing that has me off. It's not quite 7, the sun is still brilliant, and I'm SOOO logy.
• FRA. Ugly-ass airport. Industrial (not in a good way), and too much of it under construction to even come close to being attractive. Germany, you're too good for this. You got some shit to do. This is your #1 hub airport. Make it look and act like one. Some streamlining would be good, too. No need to walk a mile from a gate to customs along darkened corridors...only to do the same to reach your next gate. I will give props for the cots seen (and being used) in one area, though. Other airports would be wise to consider the same.
• Fish pedicures. Seriously. Our last day in Prague, during our last hours of free time, some fellow choir girls decided to do this. I have no idea what they were thinking, yet at the same time, it sounds rather compelling. It sounded especially so at the end of the trip. I mean, soaking your poor, aching, blistery feet in cool water while fish lightly nibble at the dead skin on your...oh...sorry. Too gross? Yeah, I kinda thought so too. And I still have the blistery, overgrown-callused feet to prove it.
• "Hey gurl haaay!" This was Mr. Man's influence. This is what the cool gay boys are saying nowadays. And by boys, I mean I think it originated with bears, of all groups. But now it's being spread. By the end of our tour, we had everyone greeting each other this way. It replaced "cheese!" in pictures. Even the tour director was saying this on the bus. And its shelf life expires in 3..2..1...
• Churches. Oh, God, a shit-load of 'em. Each of them more astounding than the rest. I mean, there's only so many times you can walk into a huge ass cathedral and gape up at the stunning stained glass, painting, sculpture, and iconography before it becomes a blur. So what do you do? You sing in them to commemorate them, right? So...
• St. Vitus Cathedral. Yeah. That huge one in Prague Castle, overlooking the city. I can now say that I've sung in St. Vitus. Not like it was something I even considered before, but we had a quick impromptu performance there. Our tour guide took aside a docent, got her to pull some strings and tell the organ player to knock it off for like five minutes (he didn't), and we jumped right in. (About halfway through, the organ player realized that some choir was singing, so he stopped, just in time for the most dramatic part.)
• Other choral music. Yeah, I'm into the really serious shit, if you followed that last link through and listened all the way to the end. (If not, do it. No, really.) For me, music like that is just sublime, heavenly. Aside from Gustav Holst's Nunc dimittis, the pieces that just killed me were the seminal Ave verum corpus by William Byrd and Our Father by Alexander Gretchaninoff. (That last link is the group I sang with...on their last European tour 5 years ago!)

More later...this poor boy's gotta unpack and get to bed. The sun's setting, it's 4 in the morning in Prague, and I'm fading fast.