Green Hell

Bitching About Writing and Music

     I haven't posted in a while, as some of you may have noticed.
     It's not for lack of things to say (far from it, as a matter of fact), but I've been busy as hell for the past few months. In addition to everything else, Mags and I have expanded our sphere to include copy-editing and advertising. This is hardly what I imagined myself doing when I began writing seriously (neither was working for a newspaper -- ain't life full of surprises?), but it pays better than endless attempts to puke up the Great American Novel.
          Speaking of which…
     I don’t think I'm destined to be a novelist. In October I churned out 75,000 words (too many of which were articles, pronouns, and conjunctions), but the book became ever longer, with no end in sight. I'm still working on the project, but I need to decide where to take it. It's more-or- less a fantasy novel; for all that it's certain to infuriate the target audience.
      Barring Tolkien, Lewis, Dunsany, Zelazny, Vance, and a handful of others, I don't even like fantasy.  In the main, it's sappy, pretentious, clichéd and boring. 

    Yes, we get it. You have seven unpronounceable names.  Your ancestry includes beings who, while less than gods, are more than men.  You bear a sentient, aeons-old weapon that devours souls, communicates with you, and erases ATM fees from your bank's records whenever you will it.  You're physically unfit, mentally unstable, and your survival actually requires more exotic chemicals than I needed to endure high school. Moreover, your graduating class voted you "Most Likely to Have His Remains Added to the Reliquary in the Shrine of Our Lady of the Turd of Misery."      
     But despite your obvious failings, I'm supposed to believe that you defeat every foe who engages you, and that you get laid as often as cheap tile.
     What's that you say?
     Fuck me?
     Fuck me? Fuck YOU!
     I'm calling bullshit on you, "Special K!" Moreover, I'm calling bullshit on your sub-creator. You're not a hero! You're a Rockefeller, a Bush, an Obama, or an inbred Euro-nabob: Were you not born in a mansion, with a silver spoon in your mouth; you'd be living under a bridge on the Southside, with a crackhead gangbanger's dangler in place of the flatware. You are not a mighty man of renown. You are, quite frankly, a wanker.      

     Having said that, I'll add that I've written a few fantasy shorts in my time (more about 'em later), but I based them on Celtic, Norse, and Buddhist mythology rather than Dungeons and Dragons -- and most of the characters get laid without falling back upon non-human ancestors or magical trinkets . One offering, a short piece entitled Thorkill's Conquest, which I scribbled twenty years ago, actually doesn't suck, and will appear in another book -- as soon as I choose between the PG-13 and X-rated versions. I'll probably opt for the former, as the latter will likely enrage a few of my ex-girlfriends, and I don’t live that way anymore. (I can already imagine the phone ringing off the hook…"Disclaimer, my ass! Who else have you done it with in the funhouse at Myrtle Beach?" Or better still: "Listen, jerk-off! The only reason I put out was because you told me you were in the band. If I'd known you were just helping them set up their equipment…")
     Hey, the key to realism is writing what you know, n'est ce pas?
     The novel has been fun to write, as I decided to use the conventions of the genre as toilet paper from page one. There are no cutesy, pixie-ish beings as comic relief, no sentient weapons, no wise and powerful wizards, and no talking animals -- except for a wharf rat with Tourette's Syndrome.  Without giving too much away, it's equal parts Cannery Row and high fantasy. The working title (swiped from either Ben Jonson or Thomas Kyd -- I can't remember which) is Sons of Swords and Fortune; which, while describing the characters perfectly, is faggy and pretentious. I'll probably change it.
     Like Leiber's Fahfrd and the Grey Mouser, the protagonists are a pack of degenerates who'd be more at home among British football hooligans than at Arthur's Round Table. Although the standard disclaimer horseshit applies, some of their antics may or may not have been inspired by actual experiences with my drinking buddies (most of whom my wife and mother consider degenerates who'd be more at home among British football hooligans than… yadda yadda yadda…).
    
     Now that I've gotten ahead of myself, I suppose I should backtrack.  The publishing company is operational. Maggie and I have put it together a little at a time for the last three years. (If I ever write a work of nonfiction, it'll address the unnecessary red-tape and BS small businesses face in this country. "Free enterprise," my rosy, Irish ass…) Our debt-free status and determination to remain that way should explain the timeframe.
      As I have nothing but contempt and loathing for usurers, I was damned if I'd borrow illusionary money and pay a cabal of tapeworm conjurors interest thereupon. Our way required time and perseverance, but the company is all ours, and we're beholden to no one. We're incorporated, we have a license, we have an attorney, and we've even taken on an intern.
     Although being a reporter wasn't always fun, I'm grateful for my hitch with John Fredericks at the Beacon.  Insofar as publishing is concerned, it was an education.  
    
      Maggie is soliciting contributions for our first offering, an anthology to be released next spring. I'm editing the collection; and -- sweet, kind-hearted SOB that I am (and because saying "no" to one's spouse is unwise) -- contributing a piece under a pen name. I'm also assembling a collection of my own short fiction, to be released whenever I have enough material to justify charging ten bucks for it. In addition to the fantasy shorts I mentioned earlier, Bill and Dave will be lurking within the covers, as will McVann. I also mean to include a period piece set in Scotland -- but lest anyone bust my clackers for bandwagon- jumping, rest assured that my Scots have body-hair, use profanity, and commit murder for next-to-nothing. Except for a few mercenaries, there are no kilts or claymores to be found. My story takes place on the Borders, a few years before Jamie th' Saxt sent everyone packing for the Ulster Plantation.

     Self-pub entails certain risks and difficulties, but it affords me complete artistic (chuckle) freedom,  and there's no way I'll spend year or more, writing a book for ten or fifteen percent of the swag.  This way, once we get our costs back, everything goes to us. No risk of making agents, publishers, and other second-handers rich while we pick shite with the chickens.
          Unfortunately, the cookbook had to be shelved for the time being. The underlying idea was making gourmet meals from dirt-cheap imports. Due to the sagging dollar, though, said imports are no longer dirt-cheap.  For example, a four-ounce packet of black sesame seed, which cost $0.99 now costs $1.79. Even my favorite brands of noodles (Vifon, Indo-Mie, Nong Shim and Sapporo Ichiban) have increased in price. These developments necessitate revamping and updating the text.

     In other news, I hit a book sale this weekend and made out like a bandit. I picked up a hardcover copy of Pasternak's Dr. Zhivago for a dollar; a volume of Cicero's dialogues, Erasmus's Ten Colloquies, St. Thomas Aquinas's Treatise on Law, a book on colloquial Spanish, Glenn Greenwald's How Would a Patriot Act (One of the most important books of the last decade, in my not-so-humble opinion), and a stack of guitar magazines. (Whilst sorting through them, I exclaimed: "What the hell? Who slipped an issue of Fangoria into this pile?" The wife says: "That’s not the cast of The Hills Have Eyes, dear. That's My Chemical Romance." Sorry. That was mean.)
    
     This reminded me that four of my guitars needed restringing. My next stop was the local music store, wherein I did something incredibly stupid. One of the axes in question was a Höfner classical acoustic I've had for thirty years.  Like an idiot, I wasn't paying attention when I grabbed the pack of strings. Lazy, shiftless ne'er-d-well that I am, I'd meant to buy ball-ends. Instead, I picked up the traditional variety.  Not having played that particular axe in years, I couldn't, for the life of me, remember how to tie the damned things to bridge. Thank God for Google…
     Finally, a full hour later, I had it strung. Another hour later, I had it tuned. I took it into the kitchen and played a few bars of vaguely Flamenco-ish noodling for the wife, who, never having heard nylon strings up close, was pleasantly surprised to discover that she very much enjoys the sound of them.  I, to reiterate, did not very much enjoy changing them.
     "Dear," says I, "next time I put myself through this, feel free to poke me in the scrotum with a knitting needle."
     As she is not a neocon, and I am not a Muslim, she declined.
     I'm bitching about it (changing guitar strings --not my wife's fundamental decency) because complaining is what I do best, but I admit that the strings are wonderful. They're D'Addario Pro Arte silverwound, and the tone is incredible. Remember your first girlfriend? Remember the first time she said "yes" when you asked her for  -- well, you know? Well, these strings are that "yes." They sound that good.
    I also picked up a package of 80/20 Bronze for my Fender F-210 (a present from my stalwart, long-suffering comrade, Ronnie Watkins, on my thirty-something birthday) and two packs of XLs -- .009s for my brother's Höfner Jaguar-knockoff, and .010s for my SG.
     Whilst restringing the Fender, I hit another snag. The pegs in the bridge were old, and made of plastic. During the struggle to extract them, one broke. This necessitated yet another trip to the music store, and the purchase of multiple pegs in whichever colors were available.  When next you see a hippie/bikerish-looking guy playing an acoustic guitar, the bridge pegs of which induce cognitive dissonance or vivid hallucinations on sight; it's probably me.
     The 80/20s are very nice. Brighter (and, admittedly, a little tinnier) than the Phosphor Bronze I usually play, but they're growing on me -- kinda like jock itch. They’re light enough (.012s) to spare my dignity (I've been wimping out and playing electrics for the last few months), but just heavy enough to restore my calluses and finger strength. Ran through Ozzy Osbourne's "Diary of a Madman" as soon as I'd tuned them -- and rediscovered the meaning of the term "self-contempt." But I stuck with it, all the same.
    Two hours later, my fingertips felt as if I'd tried to pick Darth Vader's nose through his mask, but I made progress.  Picking up the electrics, by way of comparison, was rather like playing that pathetic "Guitar Hero" game.
      And speaking of electrics…     
      XL's aren't my favorite strings, but they're not at all bad -- and they're reasonably priced. Once upon a time, I only played Fender "Bullets," but I haven't seen them in years.  I tried Ernie Ball "Slinkies" during the late '80s or early '90s and found myself hoping for a chance to kick ol' Ernie right in the -- well, you get the picture. For the time being, I'll keep D'Addarios on my electrics.

     Not much to say about the SG. It's a stock, mid-'90s Epiphone. Looks nice, sounds nice, plays nice, and aside from the rinky-dink neck (which feels like balsa wood) I'm very fond of it.  
    
     The Jag knockoff is a different story.  During the autumn of '82, my late brother expressed an interest in playing -- probably my fault. Not entirely convinced of his sincerity, Da bought him an inexpensive German model (A Höfner 164, as nearly as I can tell) at the Heidelberg PX; reasoning that if Chris was serious, plying him with a better instrument would be a matter of course.
     Chris hated the guitar.  His disappointment upon opening the box was obvious, and I honestly wanted to be somewhere else, for my father's sake.  In retrospect, I don't think his feelings were hurt, but one can never tell.
     For my part, I didn't understand. I'd been nagging the old man for an electric guitar since the spring of '81, to no avail. As I'd have considered even a cheap PX or Sears-Roebuck model a Godsend, Christopher's ingratitude flabbergasted me.  
     In time, Daddy relented and bought me a midline classical acoustic for Christmas of '81 (with a stern warning that I'd damned-sight better enroll in a guitar class within the next two semesters). But one can't play heavy metal on nylon strings; all the more reason to marvel at my brother's uncouth reaction.

     My first electric was the payoff for working the 130^th Station Hospital Pharmacy as part of the DOD's Summer Hire program. Six weeks of fulltime blood, sweat, tears, hopes, and dreams (and of forsaking movies, the video arcade at Campbell Barracks, LP purchases, and the water park in Leimen -- all heroic sacrifices for a boy not quite fifteen) bought my first real axe.
     It was an Aria Pro II CS-350, and a case of love at first sight. Aqua blue and shaped like a lopsided, wasp-waisted SG, it had chrome hardware, two humbuckers, with separate tone and volume pots; a standard, three-position toggle for a selector, and coil taps. Best of all, it felt like a real guitar -- heavy, solid, and unyielding.
    One of the amber-colored tone knobs has long since become stripped, fallen off, and rolled into oblivion. My own perspiration has corroded much of the chrome plating, and several frets are worn nearly to the fingerboard. I've played, taught, composed, recorded, and moved on to other pursuits -- while never abandoning that teenage ambition of mine, or the instrument. However battered, it's still a part of me; so inseparably, it will be even when it ceases to exist. The bond transcends sentiment and attachment: when wood dry-rots and metal rusts, when the guitar disintegrates into oxidized flakes and termite-shit sawdust, it will be as heavy, solid, and unyielding as ever -- perhaps even more so.

        Hopefully, this explains my failure to understand my brother's fit of pique. He'd been given something for which I'd have killed -- and yet he stuck his nose up at it.
      "OK, so it ain't the best axe on earth. But it's a freakin' electric, dude! An' it didn't cost you one red cent! Shitfire! You can even use my amp whenever you want!"
     I didn't remind him that I'd begged for the amp, and gotten my wish -- the cheapest POS the PX had in stock. By then I'd already bought a guitar, so was one more year? Save my allowance, work another summer; and a better amp was as good as mine.  Another season; and I'd have an arsenal of stomp-boxes. One more; and I'd be back in the Land of the Big PX -- wherein innumerable apsaras of gainful employment supinated themselves, bared their hooters, spread their legs, and promised me a HiWatt, or at least a Crate for my trouble. Why hurry?

        Try as I might, I never managed to soften Chris's attitude towards his guitar. He regarded it with undisguised contempt, never touched it, and took up bass in '85. I can't remember him learning more than two songs on the guitar: "King of the Road" and "Black Sabbath." Bass was another matter. He picked up Thin Lizzy's "Renegade," Black Sabbath's "Black Sabbath," Deep Purple's "Love Child," and a few AC/DC tunes; but being a lazy, unmotivated bastard ("We should play more AC/DC. You don't have to move your fingers much, and it doesn’t matter how stoned you are…"), he shelved it and took up vocals when my friend, Jon, bought a Squier P-Bass knockoff. 
     Chris wasn't a good singer, but he wasn't a bad one, either. Despite his limited range and galling, Maryland accent, he could manage a Johnny Rotten-ish snarl; and never stooped to "Cookie Monster" bellowing. As fate would have it though, his muse eventually led him away from music, to the seedier end of Ponce de Leon Avenue. And if he was happier working construction and car-washes, and spending his earnings on booze and hookers, who was I to fault him? At the time, music was my life -- but it was only the soundtrack to his. He went his way, I went mine -- and gained an orphaned guitar in the process.
   
     In time, it became mine.
     Until I bought the Stratocaster, I was rather a ham-fisted player. This is to say that I routinely broke strings. It's also worth mentioning that I'm rough on equipment, period.

     "Uh, Dave, buddy? You're a damned good customer an' all, but I just gotta ask you one thing. How the f*** did you manage to melt three tubes?"
    "Awnknow. Mus' be the conditions inna g'rage."
     "You’re still playing in your f****in' garage?"
     "Not always. Sometimes I play in the basement -- and other people's garages. "

     "Otis was asking about you a couple o' weeks ago. Said he asked you to audition. I heard Charlie offered you a chance to jam onstage, too."
     "Yup."
     "Man, I don't get you. What are you? Just a total asshole?"
     "Nah. I'm more of a chickenshit. Now can you fix the f***in' amp, or what?"

     Christopher's guitar was a Godsend and, more importantly, a backup.  Granted, it didn't sound like the Aria, but it spared me the trouble of installing an entire set of new strings when I broke one.  Moreover, I really liked it.
     Until so-called "Alternative" became all the rage, no-one played anything that looked even remotely like a Jaguar. During the '80s, as a matter of fact, most of the big-hair bands preferred instruments that more resembled microorganisms one might catch in a Haitian brothel. Aside from a brief dalliance with Explorers, I always preferred the more traditional shapes: SGs, Strats, ESs, etc. (The sole exception to the rule is the Les Paul. It's blasphemy to say so, but I've never cared for them. To me, they play like hunks of flotsam, and they all sound alike. I'm far more partial to Stratocasters.)  
     Given my predilection for all things passé, the outdated look of my brother's guitar appealed to me -- and still does.  When next I jam with my cousin, I'll play it and have the wife shoot a few photos or a video clip. I'm sure to look like an art-fart, 90's grunge-rocker -- but I like it that way.
     As you can see from the photo below, the instrument has a no-frills, sunburst finish, two ultra-primitive single-coil pickups, one tone and one volume pot, and a mongrelized bridge and tailpiece. Crude though it may be, I love the sound.  The bridge pickup is a little tinny, but its counterpart in the neck position has a nice, fat "woman tone" that lends itself to blues-rock -- or to kicking back and mimicking Grand Funk Railroad. The bridge pickup's tinniness is easily overcome by fiddling with the tone settings on the amp and pedals, and it has a raw, jagged, punk sound that warms the cockles of my Grinchy li'l heart. Although it doesn't howl as fiercely as my hollowbody, it's quite capable of spitting out controllable feedback.  For a cheapie (and this is quite surprising, considering the instrument's relative lightness), the sustain is very nice, and the Cro Mag bridge makes adjusting the action a cinch.
    Best of all, it has 22 frets, and the cutaway is deep enough to allow access to all of them.  This enables me to cop the solo from Judas Priest's cover of "Diamonds and Rust" note-for-note, without going an octave lower -- or bending a string until it snaps.

    One man's trash is, indeed, another man's treasure.

                                                                 Höfner 164 (?)

 

 

Another Irrelevant Post

This is another "just for shits and giggles" post.

When I was a zit-faced kid who couldn't get laid to save his life, I spent a good bit of my time listening to (and learning to play) music. At the time, Ritchie Blackmore (Deep Purple, Rainbow) and Dave Murray (Iron Maiden) were among my favorite guitarists. At one point or another in their respective careers, both played white Stratocasters (the sight of Blackmore smashing one at an '82 gig in Germany left me wanting to kill him for quite some time). I thought they were the neatest looking guitars I'd ever seen, and I lusted after one for years.

As fate would have, my first attempt at playing one was a disaster. My first electric guitar was an Aria Pro II CS-350. For what I paid for it (DM 600 -- a little under $300 in 1982), it was one hell of an axe -- but it had a flat fretboard, to which I became accustomed. The Strat, on the other hand, has a curved fretboard. While this feature greatly facilitates playing barre chords, I found that it complicated playing lead. Moreover, Strats were out of my price range. (High school/college students earning minimum wage are hardly fonts of disposable income.)

By '91, however, I had a more-or-less "real" job, and was finally able to afford one. At the time, I was a regular at the local music store (in addition to four stomp boxes, a Crybaby wah, three guitars, dozens of cables and hundreds of picks -- I'm as rough on equipment as I am on eyeglasses), I purchased a pack of strings every week or so. Better still, a guy I'd known since elementary school was working there.

Whilst browsing one day, I spotted the axe in the photo -- and nearly lost consciousness when 90% of my blood rushed to my pecker. I asked my buddy how much they were asking for it. He responded by inquiring as to the exact degree to which filthy lucre had besmirched my mitts. When I answered honestly, he downplayed the axe a bit ("It's missing the vibrato bar...") and told me that for $375 or thereabout, it was mine -- and that he'd throw in a gig bag, a set of strings, and a handful of picks. I paid cash, and he quickly packed me up and rushed me out the door. This being a very reputable establishment, I knew the guitar wasn't hot. I also knew that my buddy wasn't a skimmer, so I concluded that he'd given me a serious break and left it at that. One doesn't look a gift horse (or Strat, as the case may be) in the mouth, after all. I took my newly acquired treasure home, and Spent the next few hours building up my calluses. :-)

The whammy bar wasn't a problem: Shortly thereafter, I found one in a junk bin at a salvage outlet for a buck or so. And the guitar was beautiful: were I not as hung as I am, I'd have shagged the input jack on the spot. :-) 

It's an '86 "Yngwie" model with a stock vibrato (admittedly, I preferred Kahler or Floyd Rose, but the thought of chopping up the guitar left me cold as a well-digger's arse), stock Fender single coil pickups in the neck and middle positions, a Seymour Duncan humbucker in the bridge position, and a scalloped fretboard.

Now the scalloped frets offset the curvature of the fingerboard to a certain extent; but also led to complications. The CS-350's flat fretboard had turned me into a ham-fisted "death gripper." Consequently, I squeezed every other note out of tune, while my chords sounded like a shop vac sucking up a puddle of extra-chunky puke. I'll cop to having felt discouraged initially, but a recent experience had led me to swear that I'd never again -- so help me, God -- give up on anything I cared about until the situation became absolutely hopeless. As I still had both hands and both ears, Hopelessville was a long ways off, a "fur piece" from where I was. I kept at it, and the effort paid off.

Within a few weeks, I'd learned to extract maximum results from minimal effort. This is to say that my touch lightened considerably, and my speed increased. Mechanical efficiency is a thing of great beauty... :-)

Oddly enough (or perhaps predictably enough,) also I broke another plateau. As a teenybopper, my primary influences were Jimi Hendrix, Tony Iommi, Ritchie Blackmore, Ace Frehley, Glenn Buxton, Dave Murrray, Manny Charlton, Angus Young, Eddie Clarke, Chuck Berry, Mark Farner, Scott Gorham, Brian Robertson, etc. Unfortunately, I tended to play like them to the point of sounding derivative.

I won't claim that Stratocasters are enchanted; doing so would be silly and primitive -- even by my lax standard of reason. I will posit, though (and I've met plenty of guitarists who agree); that the Strat, through some unidentifiable quirk of design, is uniquely suited to bringing out a guitarist's individuality. After playing one for a year, I somehow discovered my own voice and style. In other words; I sounded like me, rather than them.

To be sure, their influences were (and still are) evident; but I was no longer an imitator. Although I'd never met any of them, countless hours spent beside the stereo, copping their licks (and grinding needle and platter alike to dust in the process), led me to think of them as mentors. I'd no sooner have jettisoned or denied what I learned from them than I would the knowledge I acquired from my father, or from another mentor-- the late Dr. Kenneth England of GSU's English Department. Instead, I took the techniques and concepts, brought them into line with my own proclivities and abilities; and made them mine.

Suffice to say that I like this axe for several reasons.

G'night.

Man Does Not Live By Bread Alone

No, by Gawd: He needs guitars, guns and other toys.

This post is just for shits'n'giggles. Even curmudgeonly sons o' bitches like me have fun at times; and I had fun go leor on Sunday, cooking out and playing guitar with my cousin. Photographing and writing about power-crazed psychopaths is a depressing line of work, and I need a break every now and then. 

Eric's playing a brand, spankin' new Ibanez AGR70. Lovely axe: sounds like tipsy, horny angels singing in Gaelic; and plays like nothing else on earth. Out of the box, the action and intonation were perfect. There's no denying that it looks like a thinner version of the Gibson Byrdland -- and it sounds every bit as good. My only complaint is the single cutaway.

Mine's a '93 "Mr. Lucky" Epiphone Sheraton II -- a 335 knock-off. Double cutaway, in case you hadn't noticed. These days, I'm hard pressed to choose a "favorite" guitar. I love this one as much as I do my Strat, my SG; my battered, thirty-year-old Aria CS 350; and the cheap, Höfner Jaguar knock-off I inherited from Chris.

Sometimes, the kid so reminds me of my brother; it ain't even funny. (The French Bulldog reminds me of my brother, too -- but that's gettin' rather off topic.) Can't remember what we were playing when Mags abandoned her Merlot to shoot this one, but I was obviously enjoying the hell out of myself.

We went through a few numbers, actually: "Sympathy for the Devil," "Eighteen," "Substitute," and a few of his originals. Like me, he began composing shortly after he took to playing. Unlike me, he took lessons from the get-go; while I spent my first year playing by ear. I owe the rest to Mr. Hajicek of HHS, Mark Burns, Ed Weir (true virtuosi, the both of them), and a very bad attitude. I still can't sight-read worth a tinker's dam (Eric's better in that respect), but we're both theory freaks -- and thusly able to improvise with minimal difficulty.

Soon as I learn the boy some "tae kwon fu jutsu," I'm gonna try to make him a member of Our Band Can Kick Your Band's Ass. And yes, we're "Ramboing" the axes. F-holes rule, bee-yawtches!

We may not be from Texas, but we've got the "Aggie Salute" down-pat. Punk ain't just a genre; it's a way of life. :-)

Revenge of the Returning Son of More Low-Relevance Garbage

 

 

And what's a retro playlist without a dedication?

 

 

 

 

 

Return of the Son of More Low-Relevance Garbage

Just sit back and enjoy the music.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Son of More Low-Relevance Garbage (Google Can Still Kiss Ma' "Ace")

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

More "Low Relevance" Garbage (Google Can Ki$$ Ma' "Ace")

 

 

 

 

This ain't bad for a cover version. I assume the guy's from "Zomerzet" or zomwhere zimilar... :-)

 

 

 

 

 

Submitted for Your Approval...

Just a bit of fun.

 

 

     

Now this is my kind o' guy: singing to his own accompaniment in his kitchen -- and doing a lovely job of it. Once upon a time, my Ma and I did the same thing. Recently, my cousin and I have taken to jamming around the dinner table. I'd say more -- but if I have to explain it, you probably wouldn't get it in the first place.  

I'm not an admirer of Albert Pike. I disapprove of Freemasonry on principle, as I consider it elitist and decidedly un-Christian. The inherent ecumenism galls me to no end (compare John 3:16 to the inscription on the Dome of the Rock, and then tell me that Allah is the God of your fathers, you apostate, power-crazed egomaniacs), while the implied elitism (bear in mind that to my primitive, literalist way of thinking; the Lord is no regarder of persons) sets my teeth on edge.

Having said that, I'll add that I like this tune.

 

 

"Bass-Ackwards"

I'm not a bassist -- but I've played one on television many times...

Yeah, that's total bullshit. Ya got me. Can't fault a body for tryin', though, can ya?

In truth, I'm not a bassist, nor have I ever portrayed one on screen or stage. Like many guitarists, though, I own a bass, and occasionally mess around with it. The fact that I only know a dozen or so songs does nothing to deter me, as I have no intention of ever playing bass onstage.

Be that as it may, I do like my inept efforts on the instrument to sound slightly more aesthetically pleasing than, say, a multi-vehicle pileup on I-85. As I don't play it very often, I don't change the strings nearly as often as I do those on my guitars. This, of course, eventually leads to the instrument producing some extremely unpleasant noises the few times a year I deign to plug it into my li'l "pig" of an amp.

And I do mean unpleasant.

Why, when last I took to pluckin' away on the sucker, it souded like an elephant farting whilst submerged in two fathoms of antifreeze.

Embarrassed beyond my ability to express myself, I hurled the instrument to the floor, dragged Maggie out of bed, hooked her to a coffee I.V., and forced her -- at blunderbuss-point -- to drive me to the local music store. I then purchased a new set of strings, wrote a bitter, obscenity-laced, anti-government polemic to my congressman, whacked a mime (apologies to Berke Breathed), and went home to set the world to rights.

I also changed the strings on my bass.

As I had no desire to spend an arm and a leg, I bought the cheapest set I could find -- and was very pleased with 'em when I took 'em out for a "test drive."

The strings in question are Hartke HSB540's. They run $17.99 a pack, and, frankly, sound great. My bass isn't what you'd call "top-of-the-line," (it's a mid-'80s Peavey Fury), but the Hartkes made it sound pretty damned good.

The sound -- even without using signal processors of any kind -- is bright, thick, metallic, and reminiscent of Geddy Lee's 1974-79 sound; or Chris Squire's on the first handful of Yes albums.

In short: I'm a happy camper and satisfied customer.

Just thought I'd pass that along.

My Sentiments, Exactly

In case the Gentle Reader is one of the five or so human beings on this planet who ain't seen/heard this one...

A Medicine For Melancholy

Pretty good without the megaphone...

Bein' the upstandin' citizen I am -- a veritable pillar of the fuckin' community, c'est moi -- I find that there is but one right, proper and gentlemanly way of dealing with depression: Getting drunker than the last lords of creation, listening to old tunes and telephoning my best friend in the middle of the night.

Luckily, my best friend lives a time zone or two away. Ergo, when it's zero-dark-thirty in Georgia, it's still a decent hour in Oz -- early enough not to piss the old boy off, at least. It's not that I mind pissing him off, mind you. At times, I do so deliberately and with mischief (It's impossible feel malice towards the guy, after all) aforethought.

No, it's just that I'd rather know where he is before getting on his nerves, as he's quite capable of kicking my ass. My worst nightmare is calling him up and needling him one day, only to feel a tap on my shoulder as I fire taunt after taunt into the receiver's mouthpiece. With the leaden, near-paralytic speed born of a three-alarm nightmare, I'll turn around and he'll be standing there.

"Cellphone, you little asshole," he'll say, as a prelude to punching my lights out. "It confers a certain degree of mobility upon the bearer thereof. Need I say more?"
Shortly thereafter, I'll come to, only to see Bill brandishing a chair in one hand and a bullwhip -- entirely too long to be of any use in the confined quarters of my basement office/study -- in the other, snarling: "Back! Back, I say!" At this point, all hell will break loose, and the entire Homeowners' Association will burst through the door, pissing and moaning about our having violated one article or another of the snarky bit of petty tyranny known as "The Covenant," leaving the three of us no choice but to beat the shit out of them, "goose" their wives, and send the entire, sorry gaggle of silly, pompous bastards to Guantanamo Bay for a good waterboarding.

At any rate, I began missing my Da something fierce last night. For whatever reason, the loss hit me like a ton of bricks. I subsequently fell into an especially nasty frame of mind, one that I suppose is peculiar to sufferers of affective disorders: Emotional depression accompanied by the accelerated thinking that is so agonizingly typical of a hypomanic episode.

During my high school days, the effect of the simultaneous consumption of amphetamines and booze or "downers" was referred to as "going sideways." This, in essence, was what my mind was doing -- minus the drugs.

"Fuck this," I said. "It's Miller time."

A few brewskis later, I was still a tad depressed, but at least in a conversational mood.

Unfortunately, my mother, my common law wife (Yeah, I know Georgia is no longer a common law state, but we've been living as man and wife for months now -- with or without Gub'mint sanction -- and my Bible doesn't say anything about marriage licenses. Moreover, she's far more than a mere "girlfriend," so I'll cast caution to the wind, say, "Damn the torpedoes!" and call her my wife) and my dog were all asleep, so pestering any of them would have been rather inconsiderate of me. My cat was awake, but she's a lousy conversationlist (entirely too fond of Emily Dickinson, like all too many females), her breath smells like Friskies® "Chitterlings and Fish Heads in Tripe Gravy Feast," and she has a nasty tendency to hiss and swat at me when I smell of beer, so I opted not to share my woes with her.

That left only "Darth Sluggo" and the Haitian dude who works the graveyard shift at the gas station, smokes joints behind the car wash, and takes naps in the stockroom when he thinks no one is watching him. (That's a hint, espece de salopard. Insomniacs need cigarettes, too; so quit fucking off whilst on the clock...) Realizing that the fate of humanity depended upon my decision, I weighed the possibilities in my keen, analytical Virgo mind -- and pondered the relative merits of drippingly sarcastic self-mockery, in the process. The weather was colder than a well-digger's ass, I was far too loaded to drive, and Sluggo speaks better English than "Baron Samedi," so I chose to call the former. (Oh! And the things I called him!...)

"Besides," I said to the battle axe hanging on the wall, "I'm already quite capable of cussing a blue streak in French, but I'm kinda weak when it comes to obscenities in Taal. Now where's my goddamn tricorn hat?"

"Ik moet met de mierenneuker spreken!" I roared, cracking open yet another beer and cranking up the volume of the music.

As the Man-Dells' tune "Bonnie" came over the speakers, I opened another beer -- entirely forgetting the one I'd just popped -- lifted the receiver from its cradle, and commenced to punching buttons. To my acute consternation, no one answered. Cursing and swearing under my breath, I then rummaged through my box of odds and ends, looking for an M-80 to flush down the toilet -- anything to alleviate the boredom and depression -- when my own phone rang.

Yep. It was you-know-who.

"Sluggo!" howls I, in delight, waking up half the fucking neighborhood in the process, " 'The time has come,' the madman said, 'to speak of many things! Of shrews and gyps and carpet tacks, of savages and stings!'"
"Been drinking moonshine again, have you, Beano?"
"Yes, no, and maybe! But that's completely irrelevant! What is _______'s favorite color? We simply must make her a necklace before I conquer inner space, outer space, and parts of Central America. I'm staunchly Protestant, you know."
"You're not making a necklace of my significant other, Beano."
"Pity, that," says I, "I'd envisioned her as a very unusual and larger-than-average pendant. It's a hip-hop thing, you see. Ever notice those ridiculous assholes walking around with 1:1 scale replicas of Big fuckin' Ben hanging from their necks? That's what I was shooting for. I'd hoped only to execute my vision more tastefully, and to celebrate the human form."
"I'll execute you tastelessly and do a bit of celebrating of my own if you even so much as think about it."

From that point onward, the conversation only degenerated. Revealing too much of it, though, would be both an act of bad faith and in very poor taste; so I won't. Suffice to say that we spoke of Eliot, Joyce and Lovecraft; Normandy, Brittany and Anjou; pedigrees, politics, finances, micro-farming, macroeconomics and music.

And that's why I've led the Gentle Reader down this path of meandering, convoluted verbiage.

Even as we discussed Joe Meek, Frank Zappa, Captain Beefheart, and various and sundry musical "booms" and fads, I forgot to tell him about this: http://pandora.com

Don't y'all just hate me sometimes?

Nasty, Mean-Spirited Song Dedication

Heh heh heh... Imagine my grubby li'l fingers a-jabbin' away at the buttons on the telephone. Imagine the rivulets of sweat pouring down my wickedly grinning face. Imagine the body parts in the refriger-- uh, let's just forget about that part, shall we? Imagine me breathing heavily into the receiver as I place my song request.

"Uh, Mr. DJ? Howdy! This is Dave in Roswell -- no, not that Roswell, you freeze-dried dingleberry. The only flying saucers we see in these parts are the result of lettuce-pickers -- Long live James Knox Polk and Winfield Scott! -- ditching stolen hubcaps, just before the local doughnut-munchers draw down on 'em. Love your show, though -- and not just when those Emergency Broadcasting System tests interrupt it. No, seriously. There's nothing that pumps my 'nads more than a thirty-something has-been who tries to curry the favor of the brain-dead li'l gobshites who listen to his program by talking and behaving as if he were one of them.

OK, so here's the deal: I want you to play a dedication for me. Oh! Sure and I must not have heard that correctly! What do you mean you don't do requests? What the hell kind of Mickey Mouse operation is this, anyway? Now I'm certain that you're a consummate professional, and one who holds radio's most hallowed and cherished institutions near and dear to his heart, right? And that is your rebuilt silver Camaro, about a block away from the studio, ain't it? The one you park there every night, when you drive in from Doraville when begin your shift? Guess they don't pay you all that much, now do they? But I digress...

Now you, Bubba-Jack, are gonna play this here dedication, right? Cool. I knew you'd see it my way. Never fuck with a Hillbilly Celt with more than his share of Norman blood, you cretin. Y'hear? Grr! I'm so bad; I eat fatback and piss nitroglycerine!"

That one oughtta set "Echelon" and "Carnivore" off, bigtime! I'm sure Dick Cheney will call out the "Shadow Praetorians" and spend the night in a bunker somewhere in fuckin' Bhutan! Actually, I probably shouldn't crack on the cowardly old bastard too hard. He might call me out on the tiles, after all! And I hear he's a regular Annie Oakley -- with a scattergun, at two or three yards! LOL! Chill, "D.C"! I jus' be fuckin' witcha, home-slice. You still be mah "dawg."

At any rate, I really would like to dedicate a song to a certain person.

The tune: "The Way You Carry On," by the Jeevas.

The person: Ain't life full of mystery?