OMG, BTW!

Now that I'm back in the saddle, I feel honor-bound to point all ten of you towards this.

Shield your eyes at first; it's that kind of awesome.

Quote Of The Day: Hater Edition

A Facebook commenter watches a video of Stevie Ray Vaughn playing Texas Flood live and coughs:

"the guitar rules but the drum and bass will just put me to sleep. Still numb, player. I feel nothing! Way to masturbate all over the pentatonic scales while the rest of the band takes a nap, Stevie!"

To be fair, Stevie occasionally dribbles a few knuckle children on the Aeolian scale as well, but let's not quibble.

This is probably the most succinct summary of why I came (ahem) to SRV so late in the game, long after I fully appreciated Hendrix, Clapton, et. al. The man wields perfect technique in service of profoundly soulful riffs...and his rhythm section has all the feeling of a click track. I've told every drummer I've jammed with that I have no interest in their "playing dead" as a direct response to the (at first inscrutable) embarrassment I felt when I first heard Stevie's band. Play with me, not for me, I say.

I have less problem with the whole arrangement now, especially after he added in a keys player, but that's mostly because I've dismissed the issue as a flaw of the Texas Blues genre.

So, yeah.

P.S. The odd font size and formatting of this post completely elude me, try to fix it though I have....

He Got It Almost Right

According to entirely sane, totally not-gay religious person, John Hagee:

"The Rapture is the Great Escape! Escape from what? Escape from the Great Tribulation that will happen as soon as the church leaves the earth."

If by "Great Tribulation" when the church leaves the earth you mean a collective sigh of relief followed by an epic wine and cheese soiree because all the finger waggers have been sucked into the clouds, presumably to frown only at each other forever and ever amen....then yes, you're spot on.

The Creaking Door Of A Closing Confessional

I have to admit something. This admission is not only eased by the fact that no one will read it, it's also spurred by that fact.

I used to think it something of a curse that I never built much of a readership for this blog. After taking an extended break it occurred to me that a possible reason for this is that I had let this blog resemble its title--always meant half-facetiously--much too much. I was saying nothing, and sometimes I wasn't even saying it well.

Self-censorship is not always a bad thing. I won't ever get into any negative aspects of my social and/or artistic life in this space--I will leave those classy souls airing their spats on Facebook to their rarefied perches. But, reviewing most of my more, ahem, recent posts (assuming they can still be called that), I see that I had begun to limit myself almost entirely to the safety of posts announcing upcoming events. Obviously an effective strategy considering my whopping ten page views per week.

What started as a forum established with the hope that I could practice my wordsmithing and share the random deep and (mostly) shallow thoughts of my day-to-day existence had quietly sunk into the sterile cowardice of words for words' sake. This blog had passed out of the realm of self-censorship into straight up P.R. Not quite my original intention...

I'm not really sure how to make my planned transition, but I very much aim to return to subjects about which I have an interest and an opinion--politics, art, religion, and other various bullshit (did I just repeat myself?), etc. Relaxing into this will be tricky; it's not easy to loosen a locked jaw. I learned that on 7th Ave. But I will do my best. I mean, hell, I live in New York City...who really would notice another poor schlub screaming random liberal, anti-religious, absurdist-leaning Jeremiads in this neck of the woods?

I mean, hopefully a few more than usual, if I let those screeds actually reflect real feelings....but, you know, other than that....

Belize

A few observations...no, wait, a few updates!

My love and I are finally honeymooning, and--on the good advice of a friend--we are doing it in the Caribbean country of Belize. Google it. (I mean, a "Great Blue Hole"? How many countries can offer such straightforward gynecological-slash-Smurf jokes? Yeah, I said it Smurfette, you whore.)

Okay, on to the observations. This is a foreign country. Hm, let me clarify--this is a foreign country the way certain neighborhoods in the Bronx are foreign. The place is populated by low income, dual Spanish-English speakers who are living in below-middle-class-American environs. The UK won this corner of Central America from the Spanish in all those sugar/coffee/slave arguments they had back in the day, and allowed it to incorporate (as such) about 46 years ago. Bully!

The food is incredible. I'm currently suffering from a sinus infection and water on the ear--meaning I'm operating at about 3/5 capacity when it comes to the whole 5 senses thing--but even without the taste and smell I would need to truly appreciate my environment I can tell that the dishes being laid in front of me are pretty damned exquisite. I mean, they have a 20 sq. ft. drywall shack that serves the best falafel I've ever had, and I'm coming from NYC. What do you do with that? No wonder the host is smiling.

Um....it's also hot. The you're-the-butter-in-the-frying-pan-of-the-gods type hot. What are the gods cooking with our hard-earned calories, you ask? Awesomeness.

Also too: I don't give a fuck--as a New Yorker I have a god-given right to hate tourists even if I currently am one. Figure out how to walk down a sidewalk without inconveniencing everyone around you and without needlessly barking to the herd of slow moving buffalo you call a family and we're cool. Those seem like two good general rules, no matter where you are. White people, I swur.

Okay, back to the wonderful, lovely, beautiful wife!

~~~~~~~

Update: Pet a shark, a stingray, saw a sea turtle, climbed the 2,100-year-old Mayan ruins at Lamanai, drank way too much one night, and swam a lot, a lot. Overall, I love my wife very much, which is what this whole thing was about. Yay!

Deep In Vein: Here

O Devoted Readers, I have obviously let this blog slip. It's not that over the last couple months I've had fewer condescending thoughts about Sarah Palin, or the Republican party, or tall people's feet. Far from it.

Mostly, I just didn't have time to write about anything more than the occasional announcement about events which, let's face it, I could more easily communicate to the 10 people who read this blog through other forums. (Facebook, sure, but I think my text messaging reached more people too, actually.)

This pattern isn't about to change, mind you.

On June 21st and 22nd, Deep In Vein is set to release "Mantra," our new, full-length album, and oh we're gonna do it in style!

We'll be performing both nights at HERE Arts Center, in their glorious main stage theater, with a full light design my yours truly, and a kick-ass video design by Blue Man Group designer, and "don't-choke-a-bitch" sage, Matt Tennie. Also: the sound. The sound system in this place will shake you like a baby. This is gonna be the kind of theatrical event most NYC bands really only dream of.

Do come by...

Two Bunnies, One God

Whenever I have a little downtime I get to thinking about the orifices of woodland animals and how those orifices fit into the grander scheme of the Universe.

I'd just like to share what I believe is a fundamental meditation on the subject.

It's God By A Landslide

Clearly, this tragedy in Uganda is God's judgment on a once proud nation now corrupted by its widespread tolerance of the homosexual lifestyle. Right, Mr. Hagee?

I'm sorry, what's that you say...?

Starburst

Here's a less modified/recombined effort compared to "The Audience" posted below. I think mostly I dig the Tron-like digital effect mixed with the raw energy of the explosion...

Manipulation Is Fun

My first attempt at photomanipulation came out something like this:

"The Audience"

I dunno, but it looks a lot better than my first artistic attempts from when I was four. We only had the DOS version of Photoshop back then: the operating system required scissors, pencils, paper, you name it...

What The Cool Kids Are Wearing

I post this here because this blog, of all places, may actually reach several of the roughly more than one person who not only works in tech theater but is, further, Aware Of All Internet Traditions.

A rare breed indeed. Yet, it is a breed who will understand the glory of an image, revealed to me but weeks ago, that is shortly bound to ironically grace a plain white work shirt.

Behold!:
Lo, I shall sear it to a spherically-woven, t-shapen textile and bear it proudly upon my breast! Let the geekiest of theater geeks tremble!

...And then let all few of us lose interest and return to skimming Failblog...

The Sound Of One Head Exploding

Holy Crap.

We Know What You Are; Now We're Just Arguing About A Refund

I shook this man's hand in 2008. A lot of people did. Good thing none of us knew where that hand had been.

Oh, and fuck you, Edwards.

Ahem... (straightens tie and jacket)

That's all I got to say about that.

Abort! Abort!

Either you politicize the Superbowl...or you don't.

It's funny to me, because by allowing the abortion ad and disallowing the gay dating ad they've managed to politicize both.

Well done, CBS. I would make a crack about your now being The BlackEye network but you'd probably manage to make that racially insensitive somehow...

...

P.S. God how I've missed me some sweet, sweet Palin in(s)anity. Especially now that the post-op swelling of her face is no longer upstaging the swelling of her ego.

No One Was There To Catch HIm

I've never been able to walk by the merry-go-round in Central Park in the rain without lamenting the early death of a sibling, cursing the phonies, and anti-ing me some establishment.

Sigh...

Back Into The Vein

Well, we did it. Two gigs in three days. It was a lot like shock treatment: thrash around uncontrollably until mental balance is restored.

Mr. Beery's is a great joint, though we had a hard time doing it justice. We had a nice crowd who were up for almost anything: the great John Wilkes Booth opened, followed by Thought and Memory, two bands with very different approaches to harder music, and both were lauded warmly.

Unfortunately, the set-up was very strange. Finding space to position a full kit and the amps and pedals for a five piece was plainly impossible, and in the end none of us was able to hear much besides the drums. Which...hampered things.

The gig at Lit Lounge had none of these problems, though. It was glorious. If Mr. Beery's was our being tossed back into the cold waters of performing live, then Lit was us finally fucking swimming again. We had a much better considered set-up and, even though Syren was sick, we all settled in and got the job done, and the crowd seemed to get that.

Which is why we all look relaxed here:


But I will give the final word to one fan in particular, whose sentiment is an instructive coda:

The light...my god, I see the light...

From The Dept. Of Unconscious Prejudices

On a lovely walk with my lovely wife, I realized that I have a previously and completely unarticulated prejudice against the feet of tall people. I imagine their length, and how oversized each feature must be--from the toes to the patch of hair on the top of the arch, to, well, what must be the amplified aromas--and, I hate to admit this, but it strikes me as grotesque.

Sigh. It's not that I don't like feet. They can be very beautiful...in smaller doses.

Tall people: I sincerely apologize for this minor, hitherto undiagnosed bit of insanity.

Still though, don't take your shoes off, 'kay?

Deep In Vein: 2010

It's not quite the new year anymore, but when you're carrying stuff as heavy as Deep In Vein's tunes I believe you can be forgiven for arriving at the party a little late.

Actually, parties.

We're almost finished recording and mixing our new album, Mantra, which means we're in a happy place--by which we mean a doomy, despairing place!--which means we're ready to start gigging again. And just to make sure it's done right, we have two confirmed gigs almost back-to-back as well as two more potential dates just awaiting confirmation.

Dig it:

Mr. Beery's
Tomorrow night, 1/23,
9pm-ish, $5
4019 Hempstead Tpke.
Bethpage New York 11714

Yes, this one is a little out-of-the-way for we regular NYC'ers, but--similar to friends with html skills or legal knowledge--this is why we know people with cars.

As for knowing people with beards and tattoos, we got that covered too, because just two days later we play:

Lit Lounge
"Precious Metal" Monday, 1/25,
9:30pm-ish, $6
93 2nd Ave
New York New York 10011

And a word about one of the two potential gigs: we were at a practice space last night, going through the set a couple times to get ready for Mr. Beery's, when a cool cat popped his head in the door just to tell us that he dug our sound. After making our collective night, he paid us the further compliment of introducing himself--he is Dirty Migz, the lead guitarist for these guys--and furtherer inviting us to open for the band's upcoming album release/get-back-in-the-thick-of-it shindig.

Details still have to be worked out, and I'm not trying to jinx anything, but as far as omens go, having a stranger express appreciation for your music after such a long hiatus is pretty hard to beat.

Igneous on, y'all!


I'm a dork, I admit it....

Gag Me With A Failed Administration

August is right. And by "right," I mean he's articulated every basal-level feeling that's shivered through my brain since this whole shitball got rolling.

It started with Harry Reid trusting Max Baucus to do the right thing swiftly, and it's going to end with the anti-democratic (small "d") farce that a simple majority in both legislative bodies of our government isn't enough to push through the ruling party's agenda.

So...can we abandon this failed House of Lords...er, Senate...now? The 100 Boys' Club (with one or two XX chromosomal-Americans allowed entry just for spice) has turned into nothing other than a way for a single American to hold his/her 350 million fellow citizens hostage, since even just the threat of a senator taking his ball and going home is enough to stop the entire game.

And yes, I'm looking at you Ho Lieberman. And your shriveled little ball.

Blech.

The Season In Review

A lot has happened in the past couple months. I won an Obie. I gave it back. 'Cause really, when you get past the funny sounding syllables, what's an Obie nowadays other than some funny sounding syllables? Not that I don't appreciate the premiere artistic award from the premiere forum for Asian alt-sex enthusiasts.

Me giving back the Obie, forcefully. No really, the Village Voice web site
has its own Wii (c) Thai Ladyboy "Return Merits" game where you can beat
an Asian alt-sex worker to death with an official V-Voice Obie-shaped dildo.

Also, I passed health care reform. Don't blame me if Max Baucus and Olympia Snowe collapse drunkenly into each others' arms on your lawn. This is what happens when you insist on bi-partisanship.

Speaking of collapses, we had the stock market, the housing bubble, Fannie and Freddie, my pants, and the Giants. They're all my fault. I'm sorry. I have a hard time telling who might benefit from a hard alcohol calmative and who could make do with a cocaine pick-me-up. My pants, for instance: clearly, a pick-me-up.

Finally: mawage. I did it. She did it. We did it together. Quit thinking like that. Actually, go ahead and think like that, cause I think I know of a proper outlet...

More finally, X-Mas:

She's smiling because she just won an Obie. Then she lost it when she repeated the word "obie" back to the committee and they realized how silly sounding their "award" really is. Then she got it back again for distributing Asian alt-porn to passers-by.

Mawage: Update One Of Forever

On a personal note, I know I've been away for a little bit, but I'm doing my best to pop my head back up and get used to the new lay of the land...

Something like this.

To that end, I must report that married life is....awesome. I was even a little sick yesterday and she didn't leave me! Which means that one of our vows has already been tested and honored!

Though, the true post-wedding bliss, if I may say, is in no longer being stuck in the middle of planning a wedding.

I vow to all I hold dear that I'll never go through that again. Never, ever again.

Heh. Yup...

The Old Jokes

They never go out of style, the old jokes; they're simply retold in a different style:

"I saw you at the whorehouse," a Righteous Man accuses his Peer:

[A Righteous Man, forced to depend on food stamps] has noticed crowds of midnight shoppers once a month when benefits get renewed. While policy analysts, spotting similar crowds nationwide, have called them a sign of increased hunger, he sees idleness. “Generally, if you’re up at that hour and not working, what are you into?” he said.

"And how, exactly, did you come to see me there?" the Peer retorts...

Checkity Check...

One, two--one, two...

Oh, this thing's still on?

I guess I should, um, say something.

(bored coughs/mic feedback...)

Mawage...

Yesterday, I married the love of my life.

The love of my life.

...And we exchanged vows. There are few times when I allow myself an actual indulgence, but I feel like my wedding qualifies. Erin and I bounced ideas around, and in the end this is what I came up with for our ceremony, posted here because I'm proud of it. And I'm proud of it because I'm proud of her.

Dramatis Personae:
Erin: The Bride
Marlon: The Groom
Mavia: The Reverend

MAVIA:

Hello, family, friends, and loved ones. We’re here tonight to celebrate the union of Erin and Marlon, who have decided that gazing at each other is nice, but that gazing outward, side-by-side, is even better.

Each of you—as friend; as family; as both—has contributed to who Erin and Marlon are as people. And the reason they’re together, and standing here before you right now, is because of who they are as people. So, if you’re wondering: the enormity of the role each of you has played in their lives—including your being here in this room with them tonight—is a big reason why they’re all dressed up and have such silly looks on their faces right now.

Who they are as people is also what lead to Erin’s idea that it might be nice to relax at night by reading aloud to each other one of her favorite childhood authors, Judy Blume. Fate being what it is, Marlon had just that day purchased an engagement ring, and the two of them had finished “Superfudge.” They cracked the cover on “Fudge-A-Mania,” which begins with the title character’s exuberant declaration…ahem…”Guess what, Pete? I’m getting married tomorrow!” (This is as far as they got that night, because Marlon, teary-eyed, leapt out of bed—greatly confusing Erin—and proposed to her then and there.)

I think this exuberance was what Margaret H. Marshall, Chief Justice of the Massachusetts Supreme Court, had in mind when she wrote: “civil marriage is at once a deeply personal commitment to another human being and a highly public celebration of the ideals of mutuality, companionship, intimacy, fidelity, and family. Because it fulfills yearnings for security, safe haven, and connection that express our common humanity, civil marriage is an esteemed institution and the decision whether and whom to marry is among life’s momentous acts of self-definition.”

By standing here before you, both Erin and Marlon happily acknowledge just how momentous your influence has been in defining them, and how happily they now define each other by this decision to marry.

MAVIA: Marlon, please repeat after me:

I, Marlon David Hurt,/ take you, Erin Maureen Koster,/ to be my wife, my partner in life and my constant friend./

I promise to:

—love you, respect you, honor you,/ and occasionally obey you, assuming you’re in the right/

—never intentionally or knowingly do you harm/

—share my hopes and my fears unconditionally and without reservation/

— hold your hand through times of health and illness,/ elation and grief,/ big smiles and little snits

—encourage and inspire you,/ and support you in all of your aspirations and endeavors/

—continue to create our wonderful life together/

—remain faithful to these vows/

For all the days remaining to me in my life.

Marlon does.

MAVIA: Erin, please repeat after me:

I, Erin Maureen Koster,/ take you, Marlon David Hurt,/ to be my husband, my partner in life and my constant friend./

I promise to:

—love you, respect you, honor you,/ and occasionally obey you, though I’ll never call it that/

—never intentionally or knowingly do you harm/

—share my hopes and fears unconditionally and without reservation/

—encourage and inspire you,/ and support you in all of your aspirations and endeavors/

—hold your hand through times of health and illness,/ elation and grief,/ times of fun and the unavoidable times of boredom./

—continue to create a wonderful life together/

—remain faithful to these vows/

For all the days remaining to me in my life.

Erin does.

MAVIA: Who has the rings? I do!

At its simplest, a ring is a symbol of continuity. It is a circle—both finite and unending. When we exchange rings, we are acknowledging that our time on this earth is limited, but that our commitment to the growth and well-being of the one we love is not.

Mavia hands Erin’s ring to Marlon.

MAVIA: (To Marlon) Marlon, please repeat after me: I give you this ring,/ an unbroken circle,/ as a daily reminder of my love for you.

Marlon places the ring on Erin’s finger.

Mavia takes out Marlon’s ring, hands it to Erin.

MAVIA: (To Erin) Erin, please repeat after me: I give you this ring,/ an unbroken circle,/ as a daily reminder of my love for you.

Erin places the ring on Marlon’s finger.

MAVIA: By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss each other!

Mar and Er make out.

MAVIA: Alright, y'all, party! Gimme a drink! Whoo!

.....

In short....aaaaaahhhhhh! I love my new wife so much!

Okay, I should take a nap....

La Poésie Financière

As a rule, I try to stay up-to-date on this, that, and the other—all three of which constantly occupy some sphere of the national mind—and, currently, the "that" seems to be the perpetual post-mortem of the financial crisis still laying waste to vast swaths of the American Empire.

In my most recent appearance as that bedraggled, over-educated NYC straphanger everyone knows and pretends not to be, I happened across an item in my crumpled New Yorker (see?) that reminded me of a prose-ish poem I'd written several years ago addressing just such (literal) changes in fortune.

On this blog, I rarely stray into anything as controversial as substance—though I do often grant myself the indulgence of polemicism (for instance). I'm going to break with that odd tradition and share the piece of writing in question.

I'm less the prescient type than the postscient type, but I would say that in some gut way I got the large-scale risks of systemic opportunism right with this one.

For what it's worth. (Heh...)

L'Esprit D'Agilotte

—Haberdashers dashed across the racks as if their hats could no longer hold the brains inside their crowns—Tailors torn from collar to crotch—Cobblers, dry tongues begging for their souls—

Agilotte arrived at the agora.

He strode through the bright bordellos of commerce much as a vintner sniffs at the corks of emptied casks. There was no water in his walk, though, just a touch of oil: he distasted mixing. He tightened his invisible hand into a fist, then rode his well-greased purse gently along the purveyors’ path, watching their stock fall like a feather.

—Carpenters’ minds warped out of joint—Smithys’ steely resolve bent out of shape—

He turned the purpose of the grand experiment on its back and tanned it in the sun until its brown was golden. Like the emerald turtles he emulated, he understood that trolling depths is only good for drowning, and who needs dip deeper than the wish of the fountain’s settled coins? After all, shallow waters are where the beasts won’t dive, and interest only flies as far as the smell of dying will take it. This is as far as Agilotte would go. But this was far enough. Nothing shiny lie farther.

He turned the corner, still intent on the baker’s dozen, the hint of special care hanging heavy on his pursed lips.

—Bankers’ reason dispossessed—

With expansive palm outstretched, he reached the store-front, but suddenly those five fingers thumbed the dim emptiness wherein the lower depths are lost every day. Agilotte had accidentally tasted the water of those currents through which no currency flows.

Being hot and cold, but not lukewarm, he spat the water from his mouth and turned his parched lips from his palm, but there was nothing there, the fare had taken all, and Agilotte, the maker of the mark, the dollar’s dolor, was left with nothing but what he thought he had bought.

—Buyer’s capital punished—

Agilotte remarked his empty palm.