Sometimes I miss not having a home phone.
Ever since I left college, I have lived a mobile-only life. This is fine in most respects since I'm hardly ever home, and it's easier to only give out one number. On the other hand, I've come to realize that I'm don't necessarily love the expectation that I'm always accessible. Not to mention that I'm missing out more and more on the beauty that is the misdial wrong number.
Like almost everyone I know, not only do I never misdial people, I quite frankly have no idea what people's phone numbers even are anymore. I just select a name on my contacts list, hit the green button and viola! We are connected. None of this dialing of numbers. It sort of takes the sport out of telecommunications, no?
In the 6th grade, there was a girl in my class whose home phone number was one-digit off from the county mental health hotline. Yes, really. And given that the mentally unstable are perhaps more prone to err in their dialing than most, her family got a lot of very interesting calls at dinnertime.
We got a bunch of wrong numbers at my house when I was growing up. There was a period of about a year when we got a series of calls from an old woman, looking for Pearl. Our phone would ring, some member of the household would answer and be greeted with said old woman shouting "Pearl? Hello? Pearl there?"
I still have no idea who this woman was or what her relationship was to Pearl, but eventually we began to feel a strange affinity to Friend of Pearl. We were less and less abrupt in telling her that she had the wrong number. She became like a regular fixture in our routine. I found it hard to believe that she could keep misdialing the the number the exact same way so many times, but old people are capable of persisting in the same mistaken behavior like no other creatures. My grandmother has alternated in calling me Christine or Judy (the names of my aunt and mother, respectively) for most of my life - most commonly, though, I am called "Judy-Uh, Christine-Uh, Sarah." (I would also answer to "Get over here and clean this up, and don't make me come get you.") Eventually Friend of Pearl stopped calling, and to be honest, we sort of missed her. I think once she even left a message on our answering machine which we seriously considered saving. Just in case Pearl ever called - she would know someone was looking for her.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
If you want a hit, you gotta make it fit
This song came up on my iPod this morning as I sat on the train that whisks me toward my dubiously rewarding job in entertainment. It struck me as both funny and deeply sad that, 31 years after it was written, it's truer than ever.
And, much like in 1977, apparently high-waisted jeans are now back in fashion - something that is also deeply sad.
And, much like in 1977, apparently high-waisted jeans are now back in fashion - something that is also deeply sad.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Welcome to the club
A couple of years ago, one of our lead singers came to town to do some scheduled press events. He was quick to show off his most recent tattoo - a large anatomical heart with blue stitches on the right side of his neck."When the guy was doing it," he recalled, laughing a little too ironically, "he was saying, 'You're in a whole new club now, man.' I guess that's true - I mean, there's no getting an office job now, huh?"
It wasn't as though he didn't already have full sleeves on both arms (and occasionally some ill-advised hair color choices), so he was already a proudly deviant member of society. But apparently in the body modification community, there are just certain things that push you to the next level of separation from the general populous by their high level of visibility.
I always think about that even now when I see people with neck tattoos. It's essentially a wordless announcement: "I feel secure in the fact that I will never need to hold a job that doesn't involve either a nametag or a hospitality rider." I wonder if they share some kind of mutual acknowledgement when they see each other on the street, as though to say, Ah, I see you have made the same regrettable decision I have - go in peace.
Last Friday I was killing time in at the Liz Claiborne outlet in Lebanon, TN. Trips to see my family generally involve some kind of foray into discount retail - it's one of the few things that brings us together, the others being Law & Order and a love of artichokes.
My mother had struck up a conversation with the woman behind the counter as she rang up the purchases. I looked over and noticed something very familiar on the woman's neck.
"Thyroid?" my mother was saying to her, smiling sympathetically. Pointing at me, "Her too."
"I had it out before Christmas," said the woman who worked at the Liz Claiborne outlet store in Lebanon, TN. "I had a big nodule. It wasn't cancer or nothin' like that."
This woman was 40ish and a bit haggard-looking, and I noted that her 6-month-old scar didn't look all that dissimiliar from my now month-old one - a 4-inch red line across the bottom of her throat. The obvious indication that one is either endocrinologically unsound or has recently been attacked by pirates.
"You'll probably notice them a lot more now," my mother commented as we left the store.
Them? You mean, my people?
To be honest, I do find myself taking more than a cursory glance at the necks of my fellow commuters on the B train in the morning. I've yet to see The Mark of Synthetically Regulated Metabolism on anyone. It might be a strange moment when I do see someone, and they realize that I am one of their kind. But I guess we will exchange knowing nods, perhaps a fist-bump - we with the scars upon thars.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Oh, I wasn't using that stupid gland anyway
I was a little ambitious when I packed for the hospital, I admit. I brought two books, my journal, headphones, a change of clothes and slippers. The closest thing I got to any semblance of normalcy was struggling into my sweatpants on Saturday. I forced myself to brush my teeth so I would feel a little more human - as well as for the benefit of the medical professionals that needed to be in close proximity to my face - but that was really all I could manage.
As it turned out, I didn't actually go into surgery until about 3PM on Friday, about an hour behind schedule. I was starving and sort of cranky but relatively calm, even when they straight up walked me into the OR. That part was a little strange - there were 3 nurses, fully scrubbed in, and the anesthesiologist. The radio was playing. Everyone seemed to be very relaxed and friendly, which made me feel better and less likely to have my usual panic attack. I guess the only sign of my restrained anxiety was that I just kept babbling like an idiot. Dr. V was marking me while I was getting an IV, and that's the last thing I remember - no counting backwards from 10 and being told to imagine a happy place with palm trees.
I did not say anything cute when I woke up. I'm not sure I said anything intelligible. They asked if I was in pain. I kept saying that I was, mostly because I felt so delirious and my feet hurt for some reason. The morphine that was subsequently pumped into my IV made me sick. I threw up in a little plastic bin as soon as I was wheeled into my room, which in retrospect was probably the best thing for me. I felt a good deal better after that.
Friday night was hard. I didn't get up to the room until almost 9PM. I felt queasy and had the worst sore throat in recent memory. From the breathing tube I'd had during the 4-hour surgery, they told me, as opposed to the 4-inch incision in my neck and the discharge tube that was currently sticking out of it. If you say so, folks. It was probably the longest night of my life - I couldn't really get comfortable enough to sleep. And everytime I got myself into an OK position, the light would snap on, and a nurse or attendant or one of Dr. V's residents needed to mess with me. That went on until after midnight. Add to that the fact that I was sleeping on some kind of possessed air mattress that kept self-adjusting. I also hadn't had any solid food in almost 36 hours, and the endless supply of drugs, making my stomach very unhappy.
On the plus side, however, I could talk fairly normally (which was a relief), although it did start to hurt after a while. Dr. V told Mom that he had gotten everything with no complications, but he found some lymph nodes that looked suspect and removed them. I will get the pathology results on Thursday when I go for my follow-up appointment. I will need to do a dye test and then a scan to determine if any of the cancer cell are anywhere else in my body - if not, I won't need to do the radioactive iodine treament, which is a relief. Once all that is determined, I can start on the hormone replacement - that's really the light at the end of the tunnel. I won't feel anything close to normal until I start taking the hormones.
By the time I was discharged on Sunday morning, I felt better than I expected. I was able to eat pretty much whatever I wanted, and I could keep the sore throat at bay with Tylenol. As soon as they let me eat solid food on Saturday (after my breakfast of chicken broth and hot chocolate, I was allowed a regular lunch and promptly sent Mom to get me a hot dog), I felt immensely better. Even the removal of the drain from my neck wasn't bad as I expected.
"You should have seen the look on your face," my mother laughed at me. "You were like Really? It's over? That's it?"
I had indeed excepted the removal of 5 inches of plastic tube from my incision to be at least twinge a little. Not so. I didn't feel a thing.
At the moment, I guess I feel pretty good physically. In some ways, I feel both better and worse than I anticipated. The pain has really been minimal - other than the persistent but diminishing sore throat, I have almost no pain at all. The incision is sore but more of a nuisance than anything else. I can shower adn dress myself and am generally pretty mobile. The down side is that I am utterly exhausted. Even doing little things takes all the energy I have. Mom and I went to the grocery store, and I needed a two-hour nap when we got back. I will go a few hours where I feel pretty normal, and then it's as though someone opened a valve, leaking all the strength out of me.
The other strange thing has been the fact that Dr. V needed to reimplant the parathyroid glands - 3 out of 4 of them made ir out alive - and they are currently, to quote the dorky-cute resident who came in on Saturday, "stunned." It will probably take a few months for them to start working again. Until then I am on massive doses of calcium and vitamin D. If my calcium level gets too low, I get this weird tingling in my hands and face. If it gets really low, I have a seizure and die. So that's a little scary.
That's the physical recap. Emotionally I feel kind of blah. I hate being so drained and constantly needing to sleep. And I do mean constantly. More than that, I hate being removed from my regular life. It's unfair that everyone else can go about their business, and I can't right now. I can barely bring myself to shower and pull on sweats. I don't like missing work or just feeling like I'm trapped in the apartment, waiting to get better.
Everyone has been calling or emailing to check in, and that's been nice. Tracy and G came to visit in the hospital on Saturday with their respective partners. Tom called this morning on his way to work - talking to him made me feel better, which I hadn't when I woke up. So far everyone has been surprised that I can talk and that I sound pretty normal. I wish I felt more normal.
I'm mostly just impatient with the process. I want my life back.
As it turned out, I didn't actually go into surgery until about 3PM on Friday, about an hour behind schedule. I was starving and sort of cranky but relatively calm, even when they straight up walked me into the OR. That part was a little strange - there were 3 nurses, fully scrubbed in, and the anesthesiologist. The radio was playing. Everyone seemed to be very relaxed and friendly, which made me feel better and less likely to have my usual panic attack. I guess the only sign of my restrained anxiety was that I just kept babbling like an idiot. Dr. V was marking me while I was getting an IV, and that's the last thing I remember - no counting backwards from 10 and being told to imagine a happy place with palm trees.
I did not say anything cute when I woke up. I'm not sure I said anything intelligible. They asked if I was in pain. I kept saying that I was, mostly because I felt so delirious and my feet hurt for some reason. The morphine that was subsequently pumped into my IV made me sick. I threw up in a little plastic bin as soon as I was wheeled into my room, which in retrospect was probably the best thing for me. I felt a good deal better after that.
Friday night was hard. I didn't get up to the room until almost 9PM. I felt queasy and had the worst sore throat in recent memory. From the breathing tube I'd had during the 4-hour surgery, they told me, as opposed to the 4-inch incision in my neck and the discharge tube that was currently sticking out of it. If you say so, folks. It was probably the longest night of my life - I couldn't really get comfortable enough to sleep. And everytime I got myself into an OK position, the light would snap on, and a nurse or attendant or one of Dr. V's residents needed to mess with me. That went on until after midnight. Add to that the fact that I was sleeping on some kind of possessed air mattress that kept self-adjusting. I also hadn't had any solid food in almost 36 hours, and the endless supply of drugs, making my stomach very unhappy.
On the plus side, however, I could talk fairly normally (which was a relief), although it did start to hurt after a while. Dr. V told Mom that he had gotten everything with no complications, but he found some lymph nodes that looked suspect and removed them. I will get the pathology results on Thursday when I go for my follow-up appointment. I will need to do a dye test and then a scan to determine if any of the cancer cell are anywhere else in my body - if not, I won't need to do the radioactive iodine treament, which is a relief. Once all that is determined, I can start on the hormone replacement - that's really the light at the end of the tunnel. I won't feel anything close to normal until I start taking the hormones.
By the time I was discharged on Sunday morning, I felt better than I expected. I was able to eat pretty much whatever I wanted, and I could keep the sore throat at bay with Tylenol. As soon as they let me eat solid food on Saturday (after my breakfast of chicken broth and hot chocolate, I was allowed a regular lunch and promptly sent Mom to get me a hot dog), I felt immensely better. Even the removal of the drain from my neck wasn't bad as I expected.
"You should have seen the look on your face," my mother laughed at me. "You were like Really? It's over? That's it?"
I had indeed excepted the removal of 5 inches of plastic tube from my incision to be at least twinge a little. Not so. I didn't feel a thing.
At the moment, I guess I feel pretty good physically. In some ways, I feel both better and worse than I anticipated. The pain has really been minimal - other than the persistent but diminishing sore throat, I have almost no pain at all. The incision is sore but more of a nuisance than anything else. I can shower adn dress myself and am generally pretty mobile. The down side is that I am utterly exhausted. Even doing little things takes all the energy I have. Mom and I went to the grocery store, and I needed a two-hour nap when we got back. I will go a few hours where I feel pretty normal, and then it's as though someone opened a valve, leaking all the strength out of me.
The other strange thing has been the fact that Dr. V needed to reimplant the parathyroid glands - 3 out of 4 of them made ir out alive - and they are currently, to quote the dorky-cute resident who came in on Saturday, "stunned." It will probably take a few months for them to start working again. Until then I am on massive doses of calcium and vitamin D. If my calcium level gets too low, I get this weird tingling in my hands and face. If it gets really low, I have a seizure and die. So that's a little scary.
That's the physical recap. Emotionally I feel kind of blah. I hate being so drained and constantly needing to sleep. And I do mean constantly. More than that, I hate being removed from my regular life. It's unfair that everyone else can go about their business, and I can't right now. I can barely bring myself to shower and pull on sweats. I don't like missing work or just feeling like I'm trapped in the apartment, waiting to get better.
Everyone has been calling or emailing to check in, and that's been nice. Tracy and G came to visit in the hospital on Saturday with their respective partners. Tom called this morning on his way to work - talking to him made me feel better, which I hadn't when I woke up. So far everyone has been surprised that I can talk and that I sound pretty normal. I wish I felt more normal.
I'm mostly just impatient with the process. I want my life back.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Just a flesh wound
I actually look worse than I feel. No, really.
I plan on telling people that I was attacked by pirates.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
My thoughts exactly
This showed up at the hospital on Saturday morning. You have to wonder if the people at 1-800-Flowers thought it was a joke.
Monday, March 10, 2008
None for me, thanks
On Friday night, I consumed the last alcohol that I can have for a good long while. After a healthy combination of tequila at dinner followed by vodka at Arlene's Grocery, I have no doubt that I was annoying and vaguely incoherent. I kept giving people shots of whiskey, probably in the hopes that they would join me down in the depths of intoxication. After all, this was my own personal mardi gras - one final hurrah before the cold, harsh restrictions of the medical community take hold. I cannot have any alcohol in my system for 14 days prior to surgery.
The cruel irony in this, of course, is that I leave for SXSW on Wednesday morning.
In a way, I'm actually glad that I will be making my first pilgrimage to Austin under strict orders to remain sober. My willpower is generally no match for an open bar, of which there will be many, but I don't really have much of a choice. Drinking = no surgery, and I would like to be relieved of The Cancer post-haste, thanks very much.
The Good
- I will be getting very little sleep as it is, and it's probably better than I actually do sleep, instead of passing out into liquor-induced unconsciousness
- Only minor risk that I will say something completely offensive to the wrong person, as opposed to absolute certainty when Johnnie Walker comes to hang out
-More room for BBQ and tacos
On the other hand, I'm also being realistic.
The Bad
-Drunk people (i.e. everyone else in downtown Austin) are insanely irritating if you're sober.
-Finding a way to explain why I'm good with Diet Coke, really, thanks - without getting into the real reason why I'm not throwing back scotch because it's free and in vast abundance.
-Booze makes bad bands better. In terms of both playing and watching.
So it will be interesting.
The cruel irony in this, of course, is that I leave for SXSW on Wednesday morning.
In a way, I'm actually glad that I will be making my first pilgrimage to Austin under strict orders to remain sober. My willpower is generally no match for an open bar, of which there will be many, but I don't really have much of a choice. Drinking = no surgery, and I would like to be relieved of The Cancer post-haste, thanks very much.
The Good
- I will be getting very little sleep as it is, and it's probably better than I actually do sleep, instead of passing out into liquor-induced unconsciousness
- Only minor risk that I will say something completely offensive to the wrong person, as opposed to absolute certainty when Johnnie Walker comes to hang out
-More room for BBQ and tacos
On the other hand, I'm also being realistic.
The Bad
-Drunk people (i.e. everyone else in downtown Austin) are insanely irritating if you're sober.
-Finding a way to explain why I'm good with Diet Coke, really, thanks - without getting into the real reason why I'm not throwing back scotch because it's free and in vast abundance.
-Booze makes bad bands better. In terms of both playing and watching.
So it will be interesting.
Saturday, March 01, 2008
I have something to tell you
I have cancer.
Initially, when the reality was yet to fully settle in, the most effective way of managing the news seemed to be to treat in the most off-handed way as possible. Oh, hi, by the way - cancer, I has it. Crazy, right? I know!
Even still, the actual words - "I have cancer" - are weirdly heady to say out loud, and I've done it almost every day for the last two weeks. They don't flow delicately. They land with a sickening thud at the feet of whomever I'm telling. It's not my intention to impart the information so brutally, but I realized rather quickly that there is no nice way of saying it, only roundabout detours.
My endocrinologist tried to use Big Words. "Your biopsy showed stage II papillary carcinoma cells," he said evenly, shuffling papers in my file.
"So it's thyroid cancer," I said.
He cleared his throat. "It's low-grade cancer. It's not cancer." On the last word, he made exaggerated finger quotes.
This was not a lot of consolation for my mother, whom I called after leaving the office with my diagnosis of "low-grade cancer."
"Maybe it's like low-fat milk," I offered, trying to make her laugh. "Not as bad for you."
I had gone to my endocrinologist with every expectation of finding out that my hormone levels had crapped out and that I was finally due to start thyroid medication. Instead I left with an appointment with the ear, nose and throat surgeon at New York-Presbyterian and the unavoidable duty of telling people.
That first day, I told a lot of people. Not because I wanted sympathy but as a way to somehow make it real. After all, I felt fine. Maybe if I said it out loud enough times, the gravity of the situation would sink in. Every time I said the words - "I have cancer" - I pulled back a little to shield myself from the shrapnel from the impact. Trust me, it's not an easy thing to say. But they still seemed like just words.
So no matter how many people I told, it wasn't really real until I went to go see the surgeon. Until there was a camera up my nose, and I was staring at my own vocal chords. Until the details of the procedure and its aftermath were laid bare, in the form of a black ink drawing that the doctor sketched on a sheet of white paper in his lap. On the diagram, he drew long, looped lines to show where the nerves that control my vocal chords were in relation to my thyroid. In rare cases, damage to these nerves could result in a total loss of the ability to speak - or worse, in death, if the vocal chords were paralyzed in such a way that they lock and prevent breathing. All sold, the removal of my thyroid could take upwards of 6 hours because of the delicate dissection of these nerves.
There were other worst case scenarios of surgery - the inability to absorb calcium and vitamin D, bleeding, infection - but for some reason, the potential-but-unlikely damage to my vocal chords is the thing that stuck with me all day. Not because I have a lack of confidence in the surgeon. He seemed very nice and more than competent. He answered all the questions that I had and didn't make me feel foolish for being uneasy. He was also honest about the very real possibility that the cancer might have spread - there is no way to know until after my thyroid and lymph nodes have been removed and biopsied again.
I'm actually a little afraid at this point - which I'm not really willing to tell anyone, lest they think I'm making a lame bid for pity. This is very serious business, as much as I've been trying to pretend that it isn't. I just hope it's not the time that I need to pay for all the bad things I've done in my life. I'm fine with having a scar - what's one more? - and taking pills for the rest of my life. I just hope that's the worst of it.
When it's all over, I want to be able to say that I don't have cancer.
Initially, when the reality was yet to fully settle in, the most effective way of managing the news seemed to be to treat in the most off-handed way as possible. Oh, hi, by the way - cancer, I has it. Crazy, right? I know!
Even still, the actual words - "I have cancer" - are weirdly heady to say out loud, and I've done it almost every day for the last two weeks. They don't flow delicately. They land with a sickening thud at the feet of whomever I'm telling. It's not my intention to impart the information so brutally, but I realized rather quickly that there is no nice way of saying it, only roundabout detours.
My endocrinologist tried to use Big Words. "Your biopsy showed stage II papillary carcinoma cells," he said evenly, shuffling papers in my file.
"So it's thyroid cancer," I said.
He cleared his throat. "It's low-grade cancer. It's not cancer." On the last word, he made exaggerated finger quotes.
This was not a lot of consolation for my mother, whom I called after leaving the office with my diagnosis of "low-grade cancer."
"Maybe it's like low-fat milk," I offered, trying to make her laugh. "Not as bad for you."
I had gone to my endocrinologist with every expectation of finding out that my hormone levels had crapped out and that I was finally due to start thyroid medication. Instead I left with an appointment with the ear, nose and throat surgeon at New York-Presbyterian and the unavoidable duty of telling people.
That first day, I told a lot of people. Not because I wanted sympathy but as a way to somehow make it real. After all, I felt fine. Maybe if I said it out loud enough times, the gravity of the situation would sink in. Every time I said the words - "I have cancer" - I pulled back a little to shield myself from the shrapnel from the impact. Trust me, it's not an easy thing to say. But they still seemed like just words.
So no matter how many people I told, it wasn't really real until I went to go see the surgeon. Until there was a camera up my nose, and I was staring at my own vocal chords. Until the details of the procedure and its aftermath were laid bare, in the form of a black ink drawing that the doctor sketched on a sheet of white paper in his lap. On the diagram, he drew long, looped lines to show where the nerves that control my vocal chords were in relation to my thyroid. In rare cases, damage to these nerves could result in a total loss of the ability to speak - or worse, in death, if the vocal chords were paralyzed in such a way that they lock and prevent breathing. All sold, the removal of my thyroid could take upwards of 6 hours because of the delicate dissection of these nerves.
There were other worst case scenarios of surgery - the inability to absorb calcium and vitamin D, bleeding, infection - but for some reason, the potential-but-unlikely damage to my vocal chords is the thing that stuck with me all day. Not because I have a lack of confidence in the surgeon. He seemed very nice and more than competent. He answered all the questions that I had and didn't make me feel foolish for being uneasy. He was also honest about the very real possibility that the cancer might have spread - there is no way to know until after my thyroid and lymph nodes have been removed and biopsied again.
I'm actually a little afraid at this point - which I'm not really willing to tell anyone, lest they think I'm making a lame bid for pity. This is very serious business, as much as I've been trying to pretend that it isn't. I just hope it's not the time that I need to pay for all the bad things I've done in my life. I'm fine with having a scar - what's one more? - and taking pills for the rest of my life. I just hope that's the worst of it.
When it's all over, I want to be able to say that I don't have cancer.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Romance, finis
For about 10 years, I have used the same line: Valentine's Day is like Hanukah. It's a holiday that doesn't apply to my people. I don't begrudge other people in celebrating it, and I don't use it as an excuse to feel inadequate. Just like Manishevitz never makes me feel bad about being an Irish-Italian gentile, the onslaught of advertising for diamonds and lingerie has never made me pine for a boyfriend. If anything, I sort of feel bad for all the men who get pressured by Hallmark into really awkward gift-buying and manufactured romance. I've always been happy that it wasn't something I had to deal with, much like 8 nights of playing dreidel with Uncle Saul.
Though I've had a predominently male social circle for as long as I can remember, I have very little experience with the standard mechanics of dating. I don't have much patience for the the rules I'm supposed to follow. If I like someone, I tell him so. I don't wait three days to return emails just to be coy. Because I find The Game so inherently tiresome and inefficeint, I content myself with my stable of adopted brothers. Even so, I take the whole business of dating rather seriously. It really takes a lot for me to sit up, bat my eyes and throw myself into the fray, so I choose my prospects carefully. I wouldn't say that I'm picky. I'm extremely flexible as far as age, location and employment. But I do require a high level of compatibility - for instance, if he's deeply offended by the occasional dead baby joke? Red flag.
A couple of weeks ago, I went out on my first real date in almost 5 years. I met him, quite unexpectedly, at last month's poker game. He asked me (twice) in all seriousness if I was flirting with him. As I mentioned, I'm not really known for my subtlety. I liked him immediately and didn't really care if he knew it, which I think is a felony in some states. Nevertheless, he seemed interested, called when he said he would, and we went out on a Saturday night. It all seemed kind of unreal - he was cuter than I remembered him, we talked effortlessly, and he laughed at most of my jokes. I had a great time. As it turns out, he didn't.
Defying my every impulse toward fatalism, I spent a few days trying to convince myself against what I knew was true. But no amount of positive thinking makes the phone ring. It's one of those classic cases where there can be no closure or even the satisfaction of finding out where you went wrong (for purely informational purposes, of course, as opposed to masochism). As I said to Chris the other night, "You think you want to get that email, but really, you don't."
I'm disappointed, but of course these things happen. It's just that the timing could have been a little better. I don't necessarily feel bad about the fact that I'm going home tonight to watch "Law & Order" and sort my laundry. But I've noticed that I have decreasing patience for the incessant Match.com commercials. "It all starts with a look." Right - and it ends with what? An ill-advised anecdote? Wearing the wrong shoes? I guess I'll never know.
Though I've had a predominently male social circle for as long as I can remember, I have very little experience with the standard mechanics of dating. I don't have much patience for the the rules I'm supposed to follow. If I like someone, I tell him so. I don't wait three days to return emails just to be coy. Because I find The Game so inherently tiresome and inefficeint, I content myself with my stable of adopted brothers. Even so, I take the whole business of dating rather seriously. It really takes a lot for me to sit up, bat my eyes and throw myself into the fray, so I choose my prospects carefully. I wouldn't say that I'm picky. I'm extremely flexible as far as age, location and employment. But I do require a high level of compatibility - for instance, if he's deeply offended by the occasional dead baby joke? Red flag.
A couple of weeks ago, I went out on my first real date in almost 5 years. I met him, quite unexpectedly, at last month's poker game. He asked me (twice) in all seriousness if I was flirting with him. As I mentioned, I'm not really known for my subtlety. I liked him immediately and didn't really care if he knew it, which I think is a felony in some states. Nevertheless, he seemed interested, called when he said he would, and we went out on a Saturday night. It all seemed kind of unreal - he was cuter than I remembered him, we talked effortlessly, and he laughed at most of my jokes. I had a great time. As it turns out, he didn't.
Defying my every impulse toward fatalism, I spent a few days trying to convince myself against what I knew was true. But no amount of positive thinking makes the phone ring. It's one of those classic cases where there can be no closure or even the satisfaction of finding out where you went wrong (for purely informational purposes, of course, as opposed to masochism). As I said to Chris the other night, "You think you want to get that email, but really, you don't."
I'm disappointed, but of course these things happen. It's just that the timing could have been a little better. I don't necessarily feel bad about the fact that I'm going home tonight to watch "Law & Order" and sort my laundry. But I've noticed that I have decreasing patience for the incessant Match.com commercials. "It all starts with a look." Right - and it ends with what? An ill-advised anecdote? Wearing the wrong shoes? I guess I'll never know.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Storytime
It occurred to me, as I sat on the bed with a glass of wine, that he was probably at the wedding about now. I imagined him making small talk, wearing a shirt and tie somewhat uncomfortably. I imagined the girlfriend had made him leave his Blackberry behind and that he kept touching his pocket reflexively, wanting to check it. He is smiling wearily as he's introduced to one person after another, maybe happy when he can commiserate with another guy about baseball.
I closed my eyes and imagined that he wished he were somewhere else, barely able to keep up the facade. Maybe he thought about me - just for a second - touching his pocket where his Blackberry would be. He probably wears the tie well, despite what he thinks. Maybe there are questions about when he's going to marry the girlfriend. They've been together a while now, after all. He thinks about how life seems to be happening to him, a tide that's sweeping him along quite without his realizing it.
None of this is true, of course. This is my version of him, the version that I've created to fill in the gaps. I sit in my empty apartment, nursing my glass of wine, and imagine him at the wedding. It gives me some solace, some part of him that I can understand, even if it's inaccurate. What is real is me, sitting on the bed, looking mournfully at my own Blackberry whose flashing red light has begun to rule my life. It's sort of romantic, is it not, the idea that he and I were in the same time zone, that he was thinking of me just as I was thinking of him. Romantic indeed. And entirely a fiction.
I take comfort in thinking of life as a series of stories. It affords me a measure of control. I can have a hand in crafting the details that go unspoken. It gives me a way to possess a part of things that would be otherwise beyond my grasp. So I imagine him at this wedding - further details of which I have not - and I smile to myself, feeling gratified that I can have an imaginary version of him to call mine. I have little hope of ever getting that close to the real one. That's the gap that stories can bridge. Maybe it's a leftover tendency from being an only child, this propensity to create fiction in the spaces of the real. If nothing else, it seems to serve me well enough in the moment. It makes me feel less alone.
This is all very melancholy. Some stories are like that. As long as I think of myself as the protagonist - the one character in the story who is expected to experience change - then I guess all is well. It's a comedy, I keep telling myself. So maybe it will all work out, in a way that I least expect. Isn't that how stories usually go?
I closed my eyes and imagined that he wished he were somewhere else, barely able to keep up the facade. Maybe he thought about me - just for a second - touching his pocket where his Blackberry would be. He probably wears the tie well, despite what he thinks. Maybe there are questions about when he's going to marry the girlfriend. They've been together a while now, after all. He thinks about how life seems to be happening to him, a tide that's sweeping him along quite without his realizing it.
None of this is true, of course. This is my version of him, the version that I've created to fill in the gaps. I sit in my empty apartment, nursing my glass of wine, and imagine him at the wedding. It gives me some solace, some part of him that I can understand, even if it's inaccurate. What is real is me, sitting on the bed, looking mournfully at my own Blackberry whose flashing red light has begun to rule my life. It's sort of romantic, is it not, the idea that he and I were in the same time zone, that he was thinking of me just as I was thinking of him. Romantic indeed. And entirely a fiction.
I take comfort in thinking of life as a series of stories. It affords me a measure of control. I can have a hand in crafting the details that go unspoken. It gives me a way to possess a part of things that would be otherwise beyond my grasp. So I imagine him at this wedding - further details of which I have not - and I smile to myself, feeling gratified that I can have an imaginary version of him to call mine. I have little hope of ever getting that close to the real one. That's the gap that stories can bridge. Maybe it's a leftover tendency from being an only child, this propensity to create fiction in the spaces of the real. If nothing else, it seems to serve me well enough in the moment. It makes me feel less alone.
This is all very melancholy. Some stories are like that. As long as I think of myself as the protagonist - the one character in the story who is expected to experience change - then I guess all is well. It's a comedy, I keep telling myself. So maybe it will all work out, in a way that I least expect. Isn't that how stories usually go?
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
It looks great on paper!
I got an auto-reply email from Tom this afternoon that said: "I'm out of the office for WMA Volunteer Day. Try the cell if you need me."
Say what? The entertainment industry is known for many things, community service not really being chief among them. So color me a little surprised that one of the biggest agencies in the country apparently compels its employees to forgo their usual responsibility of generating money for their overlords to sort through donations at the Salvation Army. Is this sort of thing supposed to boost morale?
Of all the strange things I encountered during my tenure working for The Man, mandatory company-wide volunteering was not one of them. Last week at my decidedly non-corporate office we did have the annual event called Celebrate G's Birthday - we took Gwyther out for BBQ and then gave him cupcakes. That boosted morale, especially the part where we had drinks at 1:00PM on a Thursday. But I suspect this is something altogether different.
Under no such mandate, Leslie still volunteers a few times a month for New York Cares. Ostensibly she signed up to met new people - up until that point she had been mostly relegated to hanging out with my friends, most of whom have substance abuse problems and maturity issues. So she opted to sacrifice large portions of her weekend, in the hopes of expanding her group of friends. At one point she was drafted into a program that took kids from a group home on day trips to various places in the city. She was told that she needed to provide lunch for her assigned kids, who were technically poor despite the fact that they could apparently afford a Playstation PSP. Somewhat shady, this. Now she organizes a group of socially awkward misfits to do grounds keeping at a nursing home in Lower Manhattan. That ends up costing her money as well in gardening supplies, and apparently the only interesting person she's met wears South Park t-shirts and curses out old ladies who get in his way when he's clipping the hedges. But...good karma? Right?
None of this is doing much to sell me on the idea that I ought to cater to the community. Not that I haven't already done my time. When I was in high school, I hung around with a bunch of girls who took the whole Jesus thing rather seriously and was thus completely willing into signing up to work in the local soup kitchen once a month. There must have been some sort of Stockholm Syndrome to blame. But then again I did many things in high school that would later seem wildly out-of-character, like being blonde and having crushes on gay boys.
We were not responsible for actually cooking anything we brought to the soup kitchen, much to the good fortune of the patrons. Our only task was to stand on the line and dispense the industrial-looking green beans with strained smiles. At the time I was blissfully naive of the potential danger I was in. Many, many episodes of Law & Order have since have taught me that all homeless people are unmedicated schizophrenics who are one wrong look away from stabbing you to death.
Why would any adolescent do anything that could even loosely be considered work for no money? Because it looks good on your college application. I was reminded of this constantly by my academic advisor. Despite the fact that I had had an actual part-time job since I was 13, I was taking 3 languages and I reguarly made standardized tests my bitch, it was patently understood that no university worth incurring massive student loans would so much as look at you without the requiste amount of volunteering. So off to the soup kitchen I went once a month for all of my junior year. I guess it worked. I do have a lot of student loans.
Much like my propensity to chase after boys that like musicals, my willingness to give of myself seemed to magically dissipate once I got my college acceptance letter. At this stage of the game, I am mercifully finished with the process of academic judgement, and my work-mandated charity is pretty much limited to donating autographed Shinedown drumheads for auction. But it's good to know that the William Morris Agency is keeping the lovely concept of involuntary volunteering alive and well.
Say what? The entertainment industry is known for many things, community service not really being chief among them. So color me a little surprised that one of the biggest agencies in the country apparently compels its employees to forgo their usual responsibility of generating money for their overlords to sort through donations at the Salvation Army. Is this sort of thing supposed to boost morale?
Of all the strange things I encountered during my tenure working for The Man, mandatory company-wide volunteering was not one of them. Last week at my decidedly non-corporate office we did have the annual event called Celebrate G's Birthday - we took Gwyther out for BBQ and then gave him cupcakes. That boosted morale, especially the part where we had drinks at 1:00PM on a Thursday. But I suspect this is something altogether different.
Under no such mandate, Leslie still volunteers a few times a month for New York Cares. Ostensibly she signed up to met new people - up until that point she had been mostly relegated to hanging out with my friends, most of whom have substance abuse problems and maturity issues. So she opted to sacrifice large portions of her weekend, in the hopes of expanding her group of friends. At one point she was drafted into a program that took kids from a group home on day trips to various places in the city. She was told that she needed to provide lunch for her assigned kids, who were technically poor despite the fact that they could apparently afford a Playstation PSP. Somewhat shady, this. Now she organizes a group of socially awkward misfits to do grounds keeping at a nursing home in Lower Manhattan. That ends up costing her money as well in gardening supplies, and apparently the only interesting person she's met wears South Park t-shirts and curses out old ladies who get in his way when he's clipping the hedges. But...good karma? Right?
None of this is doing much to sell me on the idea that I ought to cater to the community. Not that I haven't already done my time. When I was in high school, I hung around with a bunch of girls who took the whole Jesus thing rather seriously and was thus completely willing into signing up to work in the local soup kitchen once a month. There must have been some sort of Stockholm Syndrome to blame. But then again I did many things in high school that would later seem wildly out-of-character, like being blonde and having crushes on gay boys.
We were not responsible for actually cooking anything we brought to the soup kitchen, much to the good fortune of the patrons. Our only task was to stand on the line and dispense the industrial-looking green beans with strained smiles. At the time I was blissfully naive of the potential danger I was in. Many, many episodes of Law & Order have since have taught me that all homeless people are unmedicated schizophrenics who are one wrong look away from stabbing you to death.
Why would any adolescent do anything that could even loosely be considered work for no money? Because it looks good on your college application. I was reminded of this constantly by my academic advisor. Despite the fact that I had had an actual part-time job since I was 13, I was taking 3 languages and I reguarly made standardized tests my bitch, it was patently understood that no university worth incurring massive student loans would so much as look at you without the requiste amount of volunteering. So off to the soup kitchen I went once a month for all of my junior year. I guess it worked. I do have a lot of student loans.
Much like my propensity to chase after boys that like musicals, my willingness to give of myself seemed to magically dissipate once I got my college acceptance letter. At this stage of the game, I am mercifully finished with the process of academic judgement, and my work-mandated charity is pretty much limited to donating autographed Shinedown drumheads for auction. But it's good to know that the William Morris Agency is keeping the lovely concept of involuntary volunteering alive and well.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
"LA Ink" - The longest hour of my life
Previously in the life of Kat Von D:
I watched "Miami Ink" more regularly in the first season that I do now, but I always liked Kat. She seemed low-key and cool, and I thought it would be fun to go drinking with her and Kelly Clarkson. And she is tall, which I appreciate. So I was happy that she has her own show, and I'm thoroughly fascinated with watching the motley parade of folks getting tattoos. Seeing people justify why they want a dolphin holding a rose - graffiti-style - to commemorate their divorce (they're FREE now, you see!) is always entertaining.*
- Kat does many realistic portrait tattoos of dead babies, grandparents.
- Kat threatens the masculinity of Ami James by virtue of her mere presence.
- Kat ditches inexplicable, trolly husband.
- Kat loses roughly 25 lbs, probably at the behest of network executives.
I watched "Miami Ink" more regularly in the first season that I do now, but I always liked Kat. She seemed low-key and cool, and I thought it would be fun to go drinking with her and Kelly Clarkson. And she is tall, which I appreciate. So I was happy that she has her own show, and I'm thoroughly fascinated with watching the motley parade of folks getting tattoos. Seeing people justify why they want a dolphin holding a rose - graffiti-style - to commemorate their divorce (they're FREE now, you see!) is always entertaining.*
But, for the love of gawd, how did it actually take 42 minutes (excluding the airtime devoted to the GEICO cavemen) for the following to occur:
Walking around Hollywood. So edgy! So awesome! It's like the "Welcome to the Jungle" video where Axl gets off the bus and is seduced by the glamorous rock and roll underworld. Also heroin. Except Kat isn't shooting up in the bathroom at the Whisky - she's meeting with her contractor. Dude, talking about construction is almost as rad as WATCHING IT HAPPEN. But don't worry, there will be some of that later. But Kat's contractor has full sleeves and wears an ironic fedora so it's totally edgy.
To be fair, Kat does do a tattoo for Eric Balfour, whose character on "Conviction" was cute and charming and evidently nothing like how he is in real life - which is sort of a tool. His tattoo is a skull with butterflies, which somehow represents that he really digs living in LA - because it's awesome! Kat agrees that LA is awesome. The design is based on (wait for it) the album art for HIS BAND. Of course he's in a band. They show a brief clip of Eric Balfour's band - wow, OK. Do not want.
Kat walks around LA some more, and it's still awesome! She tries to convince Corey Miller, one of her mentors, to come work at her shop instead of his. Even though his shop actually exists and hers...not so much right now. Corey makes like he won't do it, but we've all seen the print ads, and so we knew how that's going to end up.
Seriously? We're only 20 minutes in? Dude.
Then it's off on a countrywide "search" to introduce us to the other artists that have already been hired. Many shots of planes taking off and other cities that are not as awesome as LA. Which is obviously why Kat is able to get them to pick up and move pretty easily. I mean, her argument is basically, "Dudes! I'm opening a shop in LA - which is awesome, by the way! Come work for...I mean, with me! In my shop! That doesn't exist yet!" She could sell ice to Eskimos, that one.
Kat does another tattoo (we're up to 2, if you're counting and you shouldn't bother) - a half-sleeve consisting of (I am not making this up) the LA skyline. What? LA has a skyline? I wasn't aware of any building there having more than 5 floors. Kat explains that she really wants to do a good job, since she would be totally dissing the awesomeness of LA if every little detail isn't perfect. Truly, I had no idea that the LA skyline was so distinctive. But I do not for one second question it's awesomeness.
Oh, PS, Kat is really glad to be back in LA. Because it's her hometown. And because LA is amazingly awesome. Those of us who don't live in LA...well, we can never truly understand the awesome awesomeness that is LA.
Is it over? Finally? Thank God. I mean, it's not like TLC isn't going to rerun it 150 times before next week's exciting installment - when Kat gets to watch more construction in action (rad!) and sit around at sidewalk cafes with her newly relocated staff. Because the shop? Still? Not so much.
* I have tattoos, and I intend on getting more. So I feel fully entitled to pass judgement on people who get completely asinine - albeit well-executed - body art. Especially people who make it my business by getting said body art on national television.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Virtually reality
In my spare time, I'm reading a novel about the music industry.
Like most of the books I've read since college, my mother sent it to me. I don't read nearly as much as I once did. I really don't have the time - unless I'm trapped on airplane with 5 hours to kill and my movie choice is something involving Adam Sandler and/or talking animals - and the idea of sifting through the enormous stacks at Barnes & Noble exhausts me. So I rely on Bling Judy, who is an avid reader, to pass along books that she think might interest me. She tends to stick to things she knows I like, and most of the time she's not wrong - with the possible exception of the book she sent by the girl who lived in New York City, describing how she paid off her astronomical credit card debt by begging money off strangers on the internet. I mean, seriously - fuck her and her Gucci shoe habit. I feel sorry for her not at all.
This particular book, while intriguing on the surface, was a similar gamble. I almost never read fiction, first and foremost. So I'm already biased going in. And I haven't finished the book yet, so it's probably unfair of me to pass judgement. But if you want to step up and fictionalize my everyday experience, you're opening yourself up to a whole world of judgement.
It's not a novel in the traditional sense of having a linear storyline, only that it's made up. It's really a series of short stories focusing on one character, each of whom have a different perspective of the music business - the performer, the label drone, the fan. A critical blurb touts that it has "an insider's touch to its depiction of the music industry and its denizens." Hmm. OK. I noticed that the author was in a band. Not a band I had heard of, and I've heard of things that never see the light of day beyond, say, the lead singer's mom's stereo. So I was a little suspect as to how insider the touch was really going to be.
The first chapter is about a 26 year-old A&R rep, condemned by the back cover as "arrogantly hip." For the most part, I cringe at fictional depictions of the music business - especially things like A&R, which is often put on par with being Mick Jagger, and this was no exception. A&R is not a hard gig, but it's a cruel one. Your value rests solely on how much weight your opinion holds on any particular day. Job security there is not, and much of your time is spent in crappy rock clubs or being criminally insincere. On the other hand, it's not that I haven't encountered a fair share of people my own age who act especially entitled to their padded expense accounts and dubious clout by virtue of their American Apparel hoodies and having their picture taken at the right parties. But it's the exception, not the rule.
A few years ago, I was in the Los Angeles office of Atlantic Records, who employed me at the time. It was my first time there, and I was making the rounds, putting faces to the people I communicated with on a daily basis. One of my last stops was the VP of A&R, who hadn't signed anything of real importance - most recently a band called Audiovent who's primary allure was that it contained the brothers of two of the guys in Incubus. But nevertheless he had a large office and unlimited supply of complimentary soft drinks, no doubt. Standing by his desk was a ruddy-faced kid, younger than me, probably about 19 or so. The department intern, I thought.
"Oh, have you met Kevin?" the VP asked.
"Hi," I said to the kid, extending my hand. "I work in the New York office." To be honest, I felt vaguely superior. I was only an executive assistant, but people knew me. After all, I had just walked into the office of the VP of A&R without knocking. While I had neither business cards nor any real influence, at least I didn't have to share a desk or spend my entire day stuffing padded envelopes.
"Kevin is our newest A&R rep," continued the VP. At this, Kevin smiled awkwardly and looked at his shoes. "He helped bring Audiovent to us."
This was the first time I realized that my very expensive college degree was no match for smoking weed with the brother of the guy from Incubus, as far as qualifications.
As I recall, Kevin was neither arrogant, nor especially hip. As the ideal demographic for pop music skews younger and the heavyweight executives get older, there occurs a frantic scrambling to latch onto anything or anyone who carried any semblance of relevance. So obscenely young and inexperienced people are hired, and their opinions are afforded an outrageous level of weight. Sometimes this goes to their head. But more often than not, they are shitcanned inside of a year when "restructuring" rolls around.
If anything, I'm a little amused to witness how an artist perceives the thoughts and motivations of those of us who work on this business side. Those of us who have to be somewhere every morning, sit at a desk and go through the motions of hawking art. Maybe we seem arrogant or self-important, incapable of understanding the artist since we must be analytical of mind and pretty much without a soul. We are, after all, agents of The Man.
Part of the artifice of the novel is how, on the surface, it's a series of independent vignettes about particular characters, the stories are all woven together in subtle ways. Central characters from one chapter pop up in the background of another as I read on, giving the whole thing a sort of loose structure. That's the one thing that I think rings true. This is a small world, this business - and a caste system in some ways. At the larger companies, unless you have a certain title, your usefulness is stripped down to whether or not you can be sent to Starbucks for lattes at 3PM. On the other hand, a person's overall clout is really nothing more than an illusion that can be crafted. It's all about getting your name out there, making sure everyone knows that you're a force to be reckoned with. I need to get better at this, I admit. My personal glory is never a concern, and I'm terrible at networking. My people will not be calling your people, and working a room gives me hives. But sometimes a reputation happens on its own.
Exhibit A: I was at a release part at the Hudson Hotel, thrown by Atlantic Records. It was a year or so after they had laid me off. Someone introduced me to Keith, who managed the Atlantic street teams. I had never had cause to deal with him while I worked there, but I had heard his name in passing. I shook his hand.
"Oh, wow, I've heard of you, " said Keith reverently. "They still talk about you. You wouldn't take shit from anyone."
There's also a healthy amount of self-loathing among almost all of the characters I've met so far in this book - the A&R guy is apathetic about his job, the rock star hates his fame, the label president feels like an inhuman dream-crusher, the sound engineer mourns the wife and children he left behind. I have to say, I have my moments of self-loathing, and they never have anything to do with my chosen line of work. Usually it's the result of stuff I do when I'm drunk. I mean, honestly - I've never met anyone who felt so resoundingly trapped in a gilded case littered with broken CD cases that they couldn't pack up and go work for a PR firm. This line of work is not as glamorous as it's often made out to be (we use a lot of Excel spreadsheets just like everyone else - sorry to disappoint), but I know that I wouldn't be happy doing anything else. At this point, I'm not sure I'm really qualified to do anything else. Besides, I think I still have some remnants of my soul left.
What struck me this weekend, as I finished the chapter about the newly signed band member who struggles with the suicide of his ex-girlfriend (replete with shout-outs to Natalie Merchant, natch), is how utterly depressing the whole book felt. All of the characters seemed so painfully isolated. There is no mention of them having friends, and especially not friends within the business with whom they can commiserate or laugh about its inherent absurdity. This is the biggest fiction of all, at least given my own experience. The friends I've made over the course of my tenure in the music industry are my surrogate family, sometimes only because they can most acutely appreciate the singular experience of what we do. "It's like being in Vietnam," I sighed to my lawyer friend. "You can try to explain it to people who weren't there, but they can't really understand what it's like."
This all sounds quite romantic, I suddenly realize. How trite. That wasn't my intention. Every Tuesday at my office I have to take out the trash. There are certainly days when I question whether or not it wouldn't be better to move to Minnesota and work at a truck stop. At times I go home feeling like I had a productive day, but more often I find myself exhausted by the struggle of fighting against an industry where logic goes to die. It's like any job.
"You should write a book," Mike said to me once. More than once. We sat next to each other for three years, tortured in similar ways by the unglamorous and often ridiculous mechanics of selling music for a living. "You can't make this shit up."
Maybe I will write a book someday. Except it would be non-fiction. And it would be a comedy, I think. After all, it's only entertainment.
Like most of the books I've read since college, my mother sent it to me. I don't read nearly as much as I once did. I really don't have the time - unless I'm trapped on airplane with 5 hours to kill and my movie choice is something involving Adam Sandler and/or talking animals - and the idea of sifting through the enormous stacks at Barnes & Noble exhausts me. So I rely on Bling Judy, who is an avid reader, to pass along books that she think might interest me. She tends to stick to things she knows I like, and most of the time she's not wrong - with the possible exception of the book she sent by the girl who lived in New York City, describing how she paid off her astronomical credit card debt by begging money off strangers on the internet. I mean, seriously - fuck her and her Gucci shoe habit. I feel sorry for her not at all.
This particular book, while intriguing on the surface, was a similar gamble. I almost never read fiction, first and foremost. So I'm already biased going in. And I haven't finished the book yet, so it's probably unfair of me to pass judgement. But if you want to step up and fictionalize my everyday experience, you're opening yourself up to a whole world of judgement.
It's not a novel in the traditional sense of having a linear storyline, only that it's made up. It's really a series of short stories focusing on one character, each of whom have a different perspective of the music business - the performer, the label drone, the fan. A critical blurb touts that it has "an insider's touch to its depiction of the music industry and its denizens." Hmm. OK. I noticed that the author was in a band. Not a band I had heard of, and I've heard of things that never see the light of day beyond, say, the lead singer's mom's stereo. So I was a little suspect as to how insider the touch was really going to be.
The first chapter is about a 26 year-old A&R rep, condemned by the back cover as "arrogantly hip." For the most part, I cringe at fictional depictions of the music business - especially things like A&R, which is often put on par with being Mick Jagger, and this was no exception. A&R is not a hard gig, but it's a cruel one. Your value rests solely on how much weight your opinion holds on any particular day. Job security there is not, and much of your time is spent in crappy rock clubs or being criminally insincere. On the other hand, it's not that I haven't encountered a fair share of people my own age who act especially entitled to their padded expense accounts and dubious clout by virtue of their American Apparel hoodies and having their picture taken at the right parties. But it's the exception, not the rule.
A few years ago, I was in the Los Angeles office of Atlantic Records, who employed me at the time. It was my first time there, and I was making the rounds, putting faces to the people I communicated with on a daily basis. One of my last stops was the VP of A&R, who hadn't signed anything of real importance - most recently a band called Audiovent who's primary allure was that it contained the brothers of two of the guys in Incubus. But nevertheless he had a large office and unlimited supply of complimentary soft drinks, no doubt. Standing by his desk was a ruddy-faced kid, younger than me, probably about 19 or so. The department intern, I thought.
"Oh, have you met Kevin?" the VP asked.
"Hi," I said to the kid, extending my hand. "I work in the New York office." To be honest, I felt vaguely superior. I was only an executive assistant, but people knew me. After all, I had just walked into the office of the VP of A&R without knocking. While I had neither business cards nor any real influence, at least I didn't have to share a desk or spend my entire day stuffing padded envelopes.
"Kevin is our newest A&R rep," continued the VP. At this, Kevin smiled awkwardly and looked at his shoes. "He helped bring Audiovent to us."
This was the first time I realized that my very expensive college degree was no match for smoking weed with the brother of the guy from Incubus, as far as qualifications.
As I recall, Kevin was neither arrogant, nor especially hip. As the ideal demographic for pop music skews younger and the heavyweight executives get older, there occurs a frantic scrambling to latch onto anything or anyone who carried any semblance of relevance. So obscenely young and inexperienced people are hired, and their opinions are afforded an outrageous level of weight. Sometimes this goes to their head. But more often than not, they are shitcanned inside of a year when "restructuring" rolls around.
If anything, I'm a little amused to witness how an artist perceives the thoughts and motivations of those of us who work on this business side. Those of us who have to be somewhere every morning, sit at a desk and go through the motions of hawking art. Maybe we seem arrogant or self-important, incapable of understanding the artist since we must be analytical of mind and pretty much without a soul. We are, after all, agents of The Man.
Part of the artifice of the novel is how, on the surface, it's a series of independent vignettes about particular characters, the stories are all woven together in subtle ways. Central characters from one chapter pop up in the background of another as I read on, giving the whole thing a sort of loose structure. That's the one thing that I think rings true. This is a small world, this business - and a caste system in some ways. At the larger companies, unless you have a certain title, your usefulness is stripped down to whether or not you can be sent to Starbucks for lattes at 3PM. On the other hand, a person's overall clout is really nothing more than an illusion that can be crafted. It's all about getting your name out there, making sure everyone knows that you're a force to be reckoned with. I need to get better at this, I admit. My personal glory is never a concern, and I'm terrible at networking. My people will not be calling your people, and working a room gives me hives. But sometimes a reputation happens on its own.
Exhibit A: I was at a release part at the Hudson Hotel, thrown by Atlantic Records. It was a year or so after they had laid me off. Someone introduced me to Keith, who managed the Atlantic street teams. I had never had cause to deal with him while I worked there, but I had heard his name in passing. I shook his hand.
"Oh, wow, I've heard of you, " said Keith reverently. "They still talk about you. You wouldn't take shit from anyone."
There's also a healthy amount of self-loathing among almost all of the characters I've met so far in this book - the A&R guy is apathetic about his job, the rock star hates his fame, the label president feels like an inhuman dream-crusher, the sound engineer mourns the wife and children he left behind. I have to say, I have my moments of self-loathing, and they never have anything to do with my chosen line of work. Usually it's the result of stuff I do when I'm drunk. I mean, honestly - I've never met anyone who felt so resoundingly trapped in a gilded case littered with broken CD cases that they couldn't pack up and go work for a PR firm. This line of work is not as glamorous as it's often made out to be (we use a lot of Excel spreadsheets just like everyone else - sorry to disappoint), but I know that I wouldn't be happy doing anything else. At this point, I'm not sure I'm really qualified to do anything else. Besides, I think I still have some remnants of my soul left.
What struck me this weekend, as I finished the chapter about the newly signed band member who struggles with the suicide of his ex-girlfriend (replete with shout-outs to Natalie Merchant, natch), is how utterly depressing the whole book felt. All of the characters seemed so painfully isolated. There is no mention of them having friends, and especially not friends within the business with whom they can commiserate or laugh about its inherent absurdity. This is the biggest fiction of all, at least given my own experience. The friends I've made over the course of my tenure in the music industry are my surrogate family, sometimes only because they can most acutely appreciate the singular experience of what we do. "It's like being in Vietnam," I sighed to my lawyer friend. "You can try to explain it to people who weren't there, but they can't really understand what it's like."
This all sounds quite romantic, I suddenly realize. How trite. That wasn't my intention. Every Tuesday at my office I have to take out the trash. There are certainly days when I question whether or not it wouldn't be better to move to Minnesota and work at a truck stop. At times I go home feeling like I had a productive day, but more often I find myself exhausted by the struggle of fighting against an industry where logic goes to die. It's like any job.
"You should write a book," Mike said to me once. More than once. We sat next to each other for three years, tortured in similar ways by the unglamorous and often ridiculous mechanics of selling music for a living. "You can't make this shit up."
Maybe I will write a book someday. Except it would be non-fiction. And it would be a comedy, I think. After all, it's only entertainment.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
The single parent
(DISCLAIMER: This is more of an writing exercise than my usual conversational rant. Which is not to say that it's any less true. I've been working with it, on and off, for about 3 months. I will never be happy with it, but today seemed like an apt day to finally stop tinkering and post it.)
My father is dying. Slowly. Statistically.
He had a 1% chance of not making it through his last surgery, but a 90% chance that this recurrence of his cancer will kill him, quickly. His kind of cancer usually has a 5-year survival rate, and his first episode was two years ago.
He called to tell me all this a few months ago, as I was driving down an endless stretch of desert highway in California's central valley. It was the first time I'd spoken to him in almost year.
Before I was born, my father wanted to name me Darryl if I were a boy. My mother says this only would have happened over her dead body.
When I was 6 years-old, my father taught me how to ride a bike. "Don't be a afraid of it," he said. "If you're afraid of it, you'll fall down." I fell down a lot. He showed me how to swing a bat, forcing my right elbow up and always telling me to follow-through. I was good at softball, and he was proud of me.
When I was 9 years-old, I used to take the bus to my after-school program at the YMCA, even though it wasn't all that far. The day that I missed the bus and nervously decided to walk, a fire engine pulled up as I was waiting to cross Purchase Street. My father waved to me and lifted me aboard. We rode together to the YMCA, and he let me ring the siren.
When I was 13 years-old, my father moved back to his hometown with his wife. He left me with my grandmother, instructing me not to tell my mother. The custody arrangement had been acrimonious and, as the primary guardian, my father was not supposed to leave the state. Fifteen minutes after the car left the driveway, I called my mother. I started at my third grammar school a week later.
My father sometimes writes me letters. They are always on yellow legal paper, torn from a pad that he keeps on his dining room table. His handwriting is in all capital letters. He tells me about the weather, my cousin and her kids. He always ends with "be careful."
When I was 18 years-old, my father stopped paying child support. He refused to give me any money for college since he felt there was no reason I ought to waste my time with such an expensive school. The campus at UNC was lovely, he'd said, and I could live with him.
Whenever I visit him in North Carolina, my father tells me how much cheaper it would be for me to live there instead of New York. He says I must have forgotten what trees and grass look like. He glares disapprovingly at my tattoos. He talks a lot about his will, what furniture I can have, if I want it. He enthusiastically tells me stories about his friend Jeff's two little girls, his adopted grandchildren of sorts. They adore him, his wife agrees. They are smart and talented and say the sort of funny, precocious things that 5 and 8 year-olds do. I've noticed that he has more framed photos of them in his house than he does of me.
When I was 24 years-old, my father called two weeks before Christmas to tell me he had cancer. It was raining, and I was walking down 2nd Avenue to my tiny studio apartment that I could barely afford. It was rare, this cancer, he told me. I should think about coming to visit - that is, if I had the time.
A few weeks ago, I turned 27. My father didn't call to wish me "happy birthday." There had been complications with his surgery, and he was in the hospital much longer than the projected 10 days. When I called to thank him for the card he sent, he sounded tired, beaten, but still unwilling to admit that both of us were just going through the motions. "I love you," I said reflexively before hanging up. "Bye," was his reply.
My father is dying. He is a chain smoker. He has congestive heart failure.
Today is his 59th birthday.
My father is dying. Slowly. Statistically.
He had a 1% chance of not making it through his last surgery, but a 90% chance that this recurrence of his cancer will kill him, quickly. His kind of cancer usually has a 5-year survival rate, and his first episode was two years ago.
He called to tell me all this a few months ago, as I was driving down an endless stretch of desert highway in California's central valley. It was the first time I'd spoken to him in almost year.
Before I was born, my father wanted to name me Darryl if I were a boy. My mother says this only would have happened over her dead body.
When I was 6 years-old, my father taught me how to ride a bike. "Don't be a afraid of it," he said. "If you're afraid of it, you'll fall down." I fell down a lot. He showed me how to swing a bat, forcing my right elbow up and always telling me to follow-through. I was good at softball, and he was proud of me.
When I was 9 years-old, I used to take the bus to my after-school program at the YMCA, even though it wasn't all that far. The day that I missed the bus and nervously decided to walk, a fire engine pulled up as I was waiting to cross Purchase Street. My father waved to me and lifted me aboard. We rode together to the YMCA, and he let me ring the siren.
When I was 13 years-old, my father moved back to his hometown with his wife. He left me with my grandmother, instructing me not to tell my mother. The custody arrangement had been acrimonious and, as the primary guardian, my father was not supposed to leave the state. Fifteen minutes after the car left the driveway, I called my mother. I started at my third grammar school a week later.
My father sometimes writes me letters. They are always on yellow legal paper, torn from a pad that he keeps on his dining room table. His handwriting is in all capital letters. He tells me about the weather, my cousin and her kids. He always ends with "be careful."
When I was 18 years-old, my father stopped paying child support. He refused to give me any money for college since he felt there was no reason I ought to waste my time with such an expensive school. The campus at UNC was lovely, he'd said, and I could live with him.
Whenever I visit him in North Carolina, my father tells me how much cheaper it would be for me to live there instead of New York. He says I must have forgotten what trees and grass look like. He glares disapprovingly at my tattoos. He talks a lot about his will, what furniture I can have, if I want it. He enthusiastically tells me stories about his friend Jeff's two little girls, his adopted grandchildren of sorts. They adore him, his wife agrees. They are smart and talented and say the sort of funny, precocious things that 5 and 8 year-olds do. I've noticed that he has more framed photos of them in his house than he does of me.
When I was 24 years-old, my father called two weeks before Christmas to tell me he had cancer. It was raining, and I was walking down 2nd Avenue to my tiny studio apartment that I could barely afford. It was rare, this cancer, he told me. I should think about coming to visit - that is, if I had the time.
A few weeks ago, I turned 27. My father didn't call to wish me "happy birthday." There had been complications with his surgery, and he was in the hospital much longer than the projected 10 days. When I called to thank him for the card he sent, he sounded tired, beaten, but still unwilling to admit that both of us were just going through the motions. "I love you," I said reflexively before hanging up. "Bye," was his reply.
My father is dying. He is a chain smoker. He has congestive heart failure.
Today is his 59th birthday.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Use as directed
As a rule, I am unconcerned about my weight. Nevertheless, this morning I was checking my body mass index online, which I do from time to time so as to confirm that I'm still squarely hanging out in the Overweight category. On the same site, I noticed an add for Miller Lite. Did I know, the girl wearing the bikini seemed to be asking (via Flash graphics), that a Miller Lite has only 96 calories? Way less that my usual summer drinks choices, like those diet-killing pina colodas.
Why is anyone who's counting her calorie intake so much as looking at beer? Don't these people have sprints to run? I won't even drink beer because I prefer my liquor to go down a little smoother than something that tastes like liquid bread. I had half a Guinness once and my body couldn't bear to accept anything else for at least 36 hours - not food, not booze, not sincere compliments. Nothing. And I'm the sort of person who considers nachos with chili as a viable meal option.
Now this really isn't new. I can't be the only one who remembers the ad campaign that Bacardi was running a few years ago where they were mighty proud of themselves that Bacardi & Diet Coke only had 66 calories. And probably the most ridiculous thing was that the commercial showed two guys in a bar being all, "Oh, sweet, I don't need ruin all that ab work I did this morning! I might even have a second drink tonight! High five, bro!" Then they pretend that they want anything to do with ladyparts. And scene.
Why is anyone who's counting her calorie intake so much as looking at beer? Don't these people have sprints to run? I won't even drink beer because I prefer my liquor to go down a little smoother than something that tastes like liquid bread. I had half a Guinness once and my body couldn't bear to accept anything else for at least 36 hours - not food, not booze, not sincere compliments. Nothing. And I'm the sort of person who considers nachos with chili as a viable meal option.
Now this really isn't new. I can't be the only one who remembers the ad campaign that Bacardi was running a few years ago where they were mighty proud of themselves that Bacardi & Diet Coke only had 66 calories. And probably the most ridiculous thing was that the commercial showed two guys in a bar being all, "Oh, sweet, I don't need ruin all that ab work I did this morning! I might even have a second drink tonight! High five, bro!" Then they pretend that they want anything to do with ladyparts. And scene.
Manorexia goes mainstream! My question was always, "Why are we following these two douchebags around the bar? Aren't there some hotter guys over there, drinking whiskey and playing air guitar to Def Leppard?" Those are the people I want to be drinking with. I really don't want anyone who's legitimately concerned about how many calories are in a rum & coke blocking my access to the bar. Leave the alcohol for those of us who aren't fanatical about carbs, resistance training or obeying the voices who say you're not good enough until you can fit into Chip & Pepper jeans.
I'll let you in on a little secret - liquor in general tastes pretty bad. This is reason why I don't do shots until strongly coerced. Well, that and because vomit tastes pretty bad too. So I'm not drinking that scotch because it's tasty and refreshing. Certainly not to wash down my Lean Cuisine panini. I drink scotch because it's not as sickeningly sweet as, say, raspberry vodka and because it's the straightest route from sober to Not Sober, in all its varying degrees. And, more often than not, I will close out my night of scotch at 3AM with 2 slices of pizza - which definitely has more than 66 calories.
Now, of course, my BMI still has me in the Overweight category. I guess it's possible that if I started drinking Miller Lite, I might be able to whittle myself down to a socially acceptable waist size. However drunk is more fun than skinny.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Sensitive White Guys
I admit it, I can't get enough.
Throw in the ol' conceptual video as a kicker and, sweet mother of Mary, I don't wanna be right.
Throw in the ol' conceptual video as a kicker and, sweet mother of Mary, I don't wanna be right.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Friday, June 01, 2007
Rock & roll time
"I could just go back to my office for another two hours." The girl in the sweater set was bitching to the security guy outside the club last night. "It says 8:30 on the ticket."
I was waiting to pick up my will-call tickets at the window. No list tonight. I was keeping it real, standing on line with the rest of the proletariat. No pass, no laminate, no call to the tour manager to be whisked onto the bus. For all outward appearances, there was nothing to set me apart from the sweater set girl and her friend who were causing a scene and demanding to see the club manager. Except that I understand how rock shows operate.
Because of the usual crew I hang with, I guess I take for granted that there really are people out there who don't understand the concept of "rock & roll time." Sure, there's the time that's printed on the ticket. It's a guideline, folks, not an absolute. If the advertised start time says 9:00PM, depending on the club, that could mean anything from 11:00PM to the following Tuesday. Once we had a showcase for a band at Piano's. They told us our set time would be 9:00PM, so we naturally figured that meant around 10:00PM. In fact, our set time was 9:45PM, and the band didn't go on until almost 11:00PM. We were not amused, but no one demanded to see the club's manager. Rock & roll time, it happens. The band's lawyer did almost get into a fist fight with the sound guy, but that's an entirely different story.
This seemed to be the situation last night: Sweater Set and her equally straitlaced friend were there to see the headliner, a guy named Ari Hest who is apparently signed to Columbia Records. She felt quite put out by the fact that there might be other music happening besides Ari Hest, thus his set wouldn't start until 10:30PM - maybe. Clearly it didn't occur to her that she might enjoy the other music being offered, hence where she continued shrieking to anyone who would listen that it was totally unfair that she had to wait in the club for two! whole! hours! Ari Hest must have really awesome pyro or something.
On the other hand, I couldn't really sympathize since I wasn't there to see Ari Hest.
The Damnwells were playing.
Occasionally people ask me if I'm friends with the Damnwells. I'm not, despite the amount of zealous hyping I do on their behalf. I've never even met anyone in the band, not even bumped elbows at the bar. It's been a while since I went to any show that didn't involve either people I know socially or where my presence was required by the nature of my job. Work shows are entirely a different vibe - even if I like the band, I can never really like them too much because of the unspoken code Thou shalt not enjoy that which thou commissions. There is also a lot of talking shop, bemoaning the quality of the mix or where in the set the band played the current single. The having of the fun is minimal at best.
But I have no stake in The Damnwells. They just make me happy. I know, that's really uncool, maybe less cool than secretly listening to bands we manage at my desk. But that's just how it is, and I've made peace with it. It makes me a little relieved that I haven't turned into one of those dead-eyed cogs in the machine who just shrugs everything off as "not horrible." There is something deeply hopefully about their songs, a clear-eyed realism tempered with the idea that somehow it will all be OK, if not quite how you planned it. These songs aren't cynical and yet not above a well-placed middle finger when needed. I always walk away from a Damnwells show feeling better than I did before I went - even the one at the Knitting Factory where there was no air conditioning and I was standing in a puddle of my own sweat. Or the one at Mercury Lounge that started two hours late. Even those were worth it.
"I got married a couple of weeks ago," Alex Dezen said between songs. A smattering of applause. "Actually...some of you were there." He used to live in Brooklyn. There were some guttural shouts, presumably from his groomsmen. Possibly the officiating minister.
"Right, well, I wrote this song after I met my wife. But before we were fucking."
This a large part of the reason why I adore this band.
They ended the set with "Sleepsinging" - as they often do, I guess since it was (in theory) the radio single from the album that Epic released and then mostly ignored. It used to seem odd to me that they would close a generally upbeat, energetic set with a song that seems to be about rejection and disillusionment.
"I will never change," Alex Dezen wailed. "No."
I couldn't tell if he was having a good night or a bad one. From the moment the band stepped onstage, he had been possessed of a furious energy that I don't think I've seen before at any of their shows. He seemed intent of giving the best goddamn performance ever, whether you liked it or not.
"Will you ever change...No."
Maybe it's not such a sad song. Maybe it's a happy song with a healthy dose of perspective. Sometimes clarity is about accepting that things are not always perfect, people will let you down, and life is hard. Choosing to be happy despite all of that goes a long way.
I'm not sure that I need to be friends with The Damnwells. They've done enough for me as it is.
I was waiting to pick up my will-call tickets at the window. No list tonight. I was keeping it real, standing on line with the rest of the proletariat. No pass, no laminate, no call to the tour manager to be whisked onto the bus. For all outward appearances, there was nothing to set me apart from the sweater set girl and her friend who were causing a scene and demanding to see the club manager. Except that I understand how rock shows operate.
Because of the usual crew I hang with, I guess I take for granted that there really are people out there who don't understand the concept of "rock & roll time." Sure, there's the time that's printed on the ticket. It's a guideline, folks, not an absolute. If the advertised start time says 9:00PM, depending on the club, that could mean anything from 11:00PM to the following Tuesday. Once we had a showcase for a band at Piano's. They told us our set time would be 9:00PM, so we naturally figured that meant around 10:00PM. In fact, our set time was 9:45PM, and the band didn't go on until almost 11:00PM. We were not amused, but no one demanded to see the club's manager. Rock & roll time, it happens. The band's lawyer did almost get into a fist fight with the sound guy, but that's an entirely different story.
This seemed to be the situation last night: Sweater Set and her equally straitlaced friend were there to see the headliner, a guy named Ari Hest who is apparently signed to Columbia Records. She felt quite put out by the fact that there might be other music happening besides Ari Hest, thus his set wouldn't start until 10:30PM - maybe. Clearly it didn't occur to her that she might enjoy the other music being offered, hence where she continued shrieking to anyone who would listen that it was totally unfair that she had to wait in the club for two! whole! hours! Ari Hest must have really awesome pyro or something.
On the other hand, I couldn't really sympathize since I wasn't there to see Ari Hest.
The Damnwells were playing.
Occasionally people ask me if I'm friends with the Damnwells. I'm not, despite the amount of zealous hyping I do on their behalf. I've never even met anyone in the band, not even bumped elbows at the bar. It's been a while since I went to any show that didn't involve either people I know socially or where my presence was required by the nature of my job. Work shows are entirely a different vibe - even if I like the band, I can never really like them too much because of the unspoken code Thou shalt not enjoy that which thou commissions. There is also a lot of talking shop, bemoaning the quality of the mix or where in the set the band played the current single. The having of the fun is minimal at best.
But I have no stake in The Damnwells. They just make me happy. I know, that's really uncool, maybe less cool than secretly listening to bands we manage at my desk. But that's just how it is, and I've made peace with it. It makes me a little relieved that I haven't turned into one of those dead-eyed cogs in the machine who just shrugs everything off as "not horrible." There is something deeply hopefully about their songs, a clear-eyed realism tempered with the idea that somehow it will all be OK, if not quite how you planned it. These songs aren't cynical and yet not above a well-placed middle finger when needed. I always walk away from a Damnwells show feeling better than I did before I went - even the one at the Knitting Factory where there was no air conditioning and I was standing in a puddle of my own sweat. Or the one at Mercury Lounge that started two hours late. Even those were worth it.
"I got married a couple of weeks ago," Alex Dezen said between songs. A smattering of applause. "Actually...some of you were there." He used to live in Brooklyn. There were some guttural shouts, presumably from his groomsmen. Possibly the officiating minister.
"Right, well, I wrote this song after I met my wife. But before we were fucking."
This a large part of the reason why I adore this band.
They ended the set with "Sleepsinging" - as they often do, I guess since it was (in theory) the radio single from the album that Epic released and then mostly ignored. It used to seem odd to me that they would close a generally upbeat, energetic set with a song that seems to be about rejection and disillusionment.
"I will never change," Alex Dezen wailed. "No."
I couldn't tell if he was having a good night or a bad one. From the moment the band stepped onstage, he had been possessed of a furious energy that I don't think I've seen before at any of their shows. He seemed intent of giving the best goddamn performance ever, whether you liked it or not.
"Will you ever change...No."
Maybe it's not such a sad song. Maybe it's a happy song with a healthy dose of perspective. Sometimes clarity is about accepting that things are not always perfect, people will let you down, and life is hard. Choosing to be happy despite all of that goes a long way.
I'm not sure that I need to be friends with The Damnwells. They've done enough for me as it is.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Can we get some weed over here? STAT!
I make no secret of the fact that I'm a bit retarded for the Stereophonics.
I'm also strangely attracted to Kelly Jones, which I find surprising only because he's roughly the size of a 12 year-old girl. But when his hair is on point and he gets his strut on, he's pretty much like sexy from concentrate. And his casual whiskey-and-cigarettes habit seems to be working in his favor, much in the same way it did for Paul Weller. In fact, I would not be at all surprised to find that he was generated in a lab using some closely-guarded Weller DNA. Unlike Paul, though, KJ's vocal range is about as big as his waist measurement. But he's smart enough to only sing that which he knows he can make his bitch. Often without even breaking a sweat. Part of the reason why he's a little fox is the sheer effortlessness with which he, for instance, shows up the Black Crowes with their own song.
This is not to say that I will buy everything the Stereophonics machine tries to sell me. There is the unnecessary cover of the Rolling Stones' "Angie" - a song not even the dulcet rasp of Kelly Jones can endear to me. There is the hero worship of John Fogerty. Not to mention the song about the white trash wedding. But, much like his hair, when KJ is on point, he can make almost anything work.
My favorite Stereophonics album, as it turns out, was the one KJ wrote when they were all really, really high. As you do. It was full of dirrrty blues-rock about making out / breaking up with the laydeez. I loved every aspect of it - the hair, the wearing of scarves, the back-up singers. It was critically maligned across the board, although no one could deny that it spawned the "Maybe Tomorrow," the Best. Song. Ever.
I have 4 different versions of it. I never get tired of it. I love it acoustic, electric, solo, in a house, with a mouse. Really, the only thing that could make it better is if Kelly Clarkson covered it. It firmly cemented KJ as someone whom I would follow, if not blindly, than at least willingly enough to excuse the time he went onstage dressed like Hunter S. Thompson.
But then the next album came out, and there was an unfortunate dearth of back-up singers, keyboards and, apparently, marijuana. KJ was now all about leather jackets, wearing sunglasses onstage like a pocket-sized Bono, and one-word song titles. They made a bunch of wonky concept videos, one of which involved Jesus at a fashion show and KJ singing mostly in falsetto. It's not as bad as it sounds, but it was still not as great as I wanted it to be. I'm not even going to get into my distaste for "Doorman," which now seems to be a permanent fixture in the live set. Or the fact that someone I often point to as a gifted lyricist actually came up with "Suck my banana / Suck it with cream." Yeah. Let's not talk about that.
KJ now seems fairly determined to churn out a new release every year, reinventing the band in the process. So I was holding out a faint hope that the album that's due this fall would be somewhat of a return to him serving up some sex with that violence. Maybe a little more introspective, as opposed to punk songs directed at the bouncer who wouldn't let you into a club because doesn't he KNOW that you're Kelly Motherfucking Jones?
Apparently? Not so.
At this moment, I'm underwhelmed by "Bank Holiday Monday," which is evidently the first single in the UK. It's fast and shouty and seemingly devoid of any bump to go with its grind. I'm intrigued by the idea that "Daisy Lane" is a Beatles-esque track about a stabbing, so points there. They played "It Means Nothing" at the BBC's Radio 1 concert recently, and while I like the melody line, it seems to be a weak attempt at recapturing "Maybe Tomorrow." Except that it goes in circles and isn't half as lyrically interesting.
And did they really write a song about the war? Seriously? DO NOT WANT.
Come on, KJ. Be mama's little sex pixie again! Let me find your bong and pour you Crown Royale until you start dressing like Keith Richards and wailing about those bad, bad women who broke your heart.
But, if I'm going to be completely honest? I would listen to KJ read the Boise phone book while accompanied on the sitar by a drunk monkey. And so...I will buy the new album the day it hits iTunes, and I will learn all the words to the song about the stabbing. I will sing those words loud and proud when KJ and his cohorts, Big Rich and Javier The Happy Drummer, come back to the Bowery Ballroom to unleash their singular brand of slightly-less-sexy rock panache. Sans back-up singers, of course, but what can you do?
However I will be going to the bar during "Doorman."
I'm also strangely attracted to Kelly Jones, which I find surprising only because he's roughly the size of a 12 year-old girl. But when his hair is on point and he gets his strut on, he's pretty much like sexy from concentrate. And his casual whiskey-and-cigarettes habit seems to be working in his favor, much in the same way it did for Paul Weller. In fact, I would not be at all surprised to find that he was generated in a lab using some closely-guarded Weller DNA. Unlike Paul, though, KJ's vocal range is about as big as his waist measurement. But he's smart enough to only sing that which he knows he can make his bitch. Often without even breaking a sweat. Part of the reason why he's a little fox is the sheer effortlessness with which he, for instance, shows up the Black Crowes with their own song.
This is not to say that I will buy everything the Stereophonics machine tries to sell me. There is the unnecessary cover of the Rolling Stones' "Angie" - a song not even the dulcet rasp of Kelly Jones can endear to me. There is the hero worship of John Fogerty. Not to mention the song about the white trash wedding. But, much like his hair, when KJ is on point, he can make almost anything work.
My favorite Stereophonics album, as it turns out, was the one KJ wrote when they were all really, really high. As you do. It was full of dirrrty blues-rock about making out / breaking up with the laydeez. I loved every aspect of it - the hair, the wearing of scarves, the back-up singers. It was critically maligned across the board, although no one could deny that it spawned the "Maybe Tomorrow," the Best. Song. Ever.
I have 4 different versions of it. I never get tired of it. I love it acoustic, electric, solo, in a house, with a mouse. Really, the only thing that could make it better is if Kelly Clarkson covered it. It firmly cemented KJ as someone whom I would follow, if not blindly, than at least willingly enough to excuse the time he went onstage dressed like Hunter S. Thompson.
But then the next album came out, and there was an unfortunate dearth of back-up singers, keyboards and, apparently, marijuana. KJ was now all about leather jackets, wearing sunglasses onstage like a pocket-sized Bono, and one-word song titles. They made a bunch of wonky concept videos, one of which involved Jesus at a fashion show and KJ singing mostly in falsetto. It's not as bad as it sounds, but it was still not as great as I wanted it to be. I'm not even going to get into my distaste for "Doorman," which now seems to be a permanent fixture in the live set. Or the fact that someone I often point to as a gifted lyricist actually came up with "Suck my banana / Suck it with cream." Yeah. Let's not talk about that.
KJ now seems fairly determined to churn out a new release every year, reinventing the band in the process. So I was holding out a faint hope that the album that's due this fall would be somewhat of a return to him serving up some sex with that violence. Maybe a little more introspective, as opposed to punk songs directed at the bouncer who wouldn't let you into a club because doesn't he KNOW that you're Kelly Motherfucking Jones?
Apparently? Not so.
At this moment, I'm underwhelmed by "Bank Holiday Monday," which is evidently the first single in the UK. It's fast and shouty and seemingly devoid of any bump to go with its grind. I'm intrigued by the idea that "Daisy Lane" is a Beatles-esque track about a stabbing, so points there. They played "It Means Nothing" at the BBC's Radio 1 concert recently, and while I like the melody line, it seems to be a weak attempt at recapturing "Maybe Tomorrow." Except that it goes in circles and isn't half as lyrically interesting.
And did they really write a song about the war? Seriously? DO NOT WANT.
Come on, KJ. Be mama's little sex pixie again! Let me find your bong and pour you Crown Royale until you start dressing like Keith Richards and wailing about those bad, bad women who broke your heart.
But, if I'm going to be completely honest? I would listen to KJ read the Boise phone book while accompanied on the sitar by a drunk monkey. And so...I will buy the new album the day it hits iTunes, and I will learn all the words to the song about the stabbing. I will sing those words loud and proud when KJ and his cohorts, Big Rich and Javier The Happy Drummer, come back to the Bowery Ballroom to unleash their singular brand of slightly-less-sexy rock panache. Sans back-up singers, of course, but what can you do?
However I will be going to the bar during "Doorman."
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
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