The Voice In Her Head

I helped a friend record and mix a charming and amusing inner monologue--made into an aural thought bubble through the generous use of reverb--for one of the puppet pieces in Attraktion. (The piece, appropriately, was called "In'ermingling.")

Just happy to note that it seems to have gone well...

Productivity Was Fun While It Lasted

Oh well, there go that many more hours of my life...

Roman A (Jail)Clef

Roman Polanski.

I mean, c'mon. The man has "pole" written into his name. And "roman." And "ski."

Between the Italianate leanings, the reference to a recreation reserved almost entirely for the well-to-do, and the plain ol' dick joke wagging proudly out front, how could anyone not expect a rape conviction occurring at some point in Mr. Roamin' Pole-an'-ski's life?

Which is all to say, sometimes a man is named accurately.

Just imagine, though, if the girl in question, thirty years ago, were your daughter, and the devil were upon her. Well, in this case, that would also be accurate.

May they throw away the clef...

Cabinet Fail

This is a rather personal note, but I feel compelled: fuck the contractors who installed the office at HERE. Fuck them in the ear with uncomfortable decibel levels.

Today, while trying to plug something in to a light socket above my colleague's desk, the wall cabinets immediately to my right came removed from the drywall and fell into me, hitting me in the face, knocking my glasses off, and partially pinning me as I tried to hold them up (seeing as they were full of sensitive electronic equipment that would hardly agree with a sharp drop to the floor). Fmy life.

The staff was wonderful--people dragged the cabinets off; got water; made sure I wasn't concussed; didn't openly root for the cabinet.

But seriously, after the hoopla, my colleague and I examined what had happened, only to discover that, 1) the two fully-weighted cabinets had only been held to the wall with four screws, four!, all on the same plane, 2) these screws hadn't been anchored in any way, 3) they didn't hit any support beams, 4) they only went in an inch (touching nothing but drywall!), and that, 5) professionals can apparently get away with work that I would have been atomic-wedgied for in my high school tech classes 14 years ago.

Given this series of revelations, I am only left to ask: why exactly am I not making $45 an hour? Cause damn it looks less strenuous than how I spend my days....

A Considered Take On A Cherished American Music Genre

I'm not a fan of country music. To me, it's not country...

...it's flyover country.

(Short burst of mic feedback; nervous coughs in the background.)

So, in other news...

Your Therapist Is Laughing At You

In trying to diagnose the mental state of the modern G.O.P., I find myself asking, "is it schizophrenia? Or just stupidity?"

But no, looking deeper I realize it's a bad case of under-appreciated comedic genius:

"Rep. Kevin Brady asked for an explanation of why the government-run subway system didn’t, in his view, adequately prepare for this past weekend’s rally to protest government spending and government services.

Seriously.

The Texas Republican on Wednesday released a letter he sent to Washington’s Metro system complaining that the taxpayer-funded subway system was unable to properly transport protesters to the rally to protest government spending and expansion"

Rep. Brady has built his epic practical joke like the best roller coasters: just when you've crested one punchline you're faced with an even bigger one:

GOP Rep Who Suggested D.C. Metro Hurt 9/12 Turnout Voted Against Metro Funding

I think my diaphragm just collapsed...

Double Digits

According to my sitemeter, I officially logged eleven unique visits this past Sunday. This is the first time I've broken double digits in the blog's almost year long existence.

And I couldn't have done it without you. All slightly more than ten of you.

Just know that I consider you, my readers, as extended family; I hold you close enough to think of you fondly, but not so close that I have to buy you stuff.

Aw, I'm gettin' all misty...

I Can Haz Intellectually Stimulating Artistic Reinterpretationz?

In the great internet ecosystem, there's a certain species of web site that sustains itself not through a single authorial voice speaking from behind the firewall, but on contributions from the page's readers. Which, essentially, means these sites are the homeless dogs of the Web: beggars dependent on the scraps of amenable passersby.

The type I've been exposed to most (make of it what you will) is the pleasantly vacuous: mostly of the classification Felis LOLus, they're damp-shnozzled places like Cute Overload and Stuff On My Cat, or Haz Cheezburger's Mean Girl relatives: Texts From Last Night, FMyLife, Failblog, Engrish, etc.

And I love them all. I admit it. I love them in a way that would leave me acned and obese, had they any caloric content.

That said, this--though being of the same scavenging genus--is of a different class altogether. It's like I've been amusing myself with scrappy little terriers only to come face to maw with a mastiff.

Can I keep it? Huh? Please, can I?

The Money Meets Mouth Project (TM)

Can we start a drive urging Republican congresspeople who oppose extending government-run healthcare to the populace at large to drop their own government-run healthcare and use private insurers?

They are the party of personal responsibility, after all. I'd hate for them to tarnish that sparkling reputation...

What Really Grinds My Gears

Sean Hannity sez, regarding teh eye-dea of government-run health care: "There's rationing, there's long lines."

Deep, slow intake of breath, looks to his shoes for help...

Who gives a fuck? When I was without health insurance--and working well over 40 hours a week, thank yew very much--I would have killed to be able to stand in a line, any line. Because at the end of that line would have a been a doctor who could have given me help for something less than the price of a used Volkswagen.

These fucking Republicans (and too many "conservative" Democrats) don't seem to get that the other option for a huge swath of the populace--most of whom work effing hard and pay plenty of fucking taxes--the other option for, well, us, is zero. No doctor. No dentist. Nothing. Nada. Treblinka. Whatever that means.

(Jesus, I just googled Treblinka and it turns out it was a German death camp. I don't remember having ever heard the name before. Not that it's entirely inappropriate in the way I used it, but dude, what the hell is your problem, associative memory? Are you twisted? Or do you just get off on wildly morbid similes?)

I will take long lines and rationing over nothing. Anything is better than nothing. The fact that this seems lost on so many people just tells me how out-of-touch most of the top earners around us are with people who work hard, but work for less.

And god help you if you come back with the argument that we should get better jobs. Just try saying that to every waiter, grocery store employee, and gas station attendant who makes your day actually fucking happen and let's count the hand prints you end up with on your face.

Um....yeah. So there.

And that, Tom, is what really grinds my gears.*

* See here.

Sketchy (Updated)

Here I go, pretending to be all artistic again.

This is a rough draft of a prop drawing a character (an art student, natch) whips up during a scene of Epic Theater Ensemble's production of Mahida's Extra Key To Heaven, opening soon at the Signature Theatre.

I'll know soon if the director goes in for it, but either way I'm rather pleased with this initial attempt.

A stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
This ebony bird did beguile my sad fancy into a smile.
Fo' realz.
--D.J. Po'

Update: Which ended up as this:


Update 2: The second one, based on this description:

"There is a wolf and a little girl with a shadow. This wolf has no shadow on the ground like the girl. They are standing before a high stone wall. At the end of a meadow. I think they have come to a place where they can go no further. Their way is blocked by a locked gate in this wall.
See the gate with a lock?
But in the tree over here, above the wolf, is a bird. A friendly white dove who has the shadow of a raven. Right here in the air above the wolf. And in the beak of the dove, she has a key. But in this shadow, the shadow of the raven, there are two more keys. Maybe even more."

I admit to being far less pleased with how this drawing turned out. To be fair, the description's a wreck--exactly the kind of thing a writer would concoct to cram all his pet themes into a single "image," while handily skirting the compositional nightmare the drawing he's describing would be in reality.

But, just for the sake of the record and as evidence that I have the guts to breathe deep and highlight my own mediocrities...breathes deep...here's that nightmare:

PSA

Writing metal music?

Use half steps.

This has been your latest public service announcement from MetalMarlon.com LLC, EPA.

(Oh, and milk. Snort milk. For strength.)

HGH

I haven't had a lot to say in the last week, I realize. Seems like I could use a little...motivation! A cat hanging from a tree limb is pretty weak tea, though, especially against the rut I'm in. No, I need a shot of awesome that I can mainline...

Image Credits: I supplied the moral perversity; these guys facilitated the rending of the social fabric.

Teamwork!

Dunno about you, but I feel ready to face the world again...

Tuesday Night Clogging

Cat weblogging. Catblogging. ...Clogging!

Pet blogging (plogging?) is standard practice among several of my favorite internuts. It is not that I've resisted the call to inject my felines into the national debate, it just never occurred to me that their images could be helpful in the pursuit of peace and understanding between the peoples of the world.

And they most certainly are not. But I finally realized I can force their damp little shnozzles on the nations of the earth anyway.

Behold!

Oscar! He's blurry because he's in motion. Where's he moving, you ask? Why...

Right here! Aiiieeee!

Hm...I really don't recall mail-ordering for an Eliza.
I don't have that strong a sadomasochistic streak.

And besides, isn't there a law against sending explosive
substances through the postal system?

True to form, Eliza exploded the final helping of salmon my love prepared for a dinner party all over the kitchen floor by nudging the baking dish from its resting place on the stove. I really shouldn't have signed for that package...

Sound And Fury...

...Signifying, um, something! Because order from chaos is the alchemy performed by the callused but careful hand of the subgenre known as noise metal.

How do I know this? Because that hand has touched me. But not in a way that made me call for an adult (I have gangsta rap for that).

Using feedback and other sounds Deep In Vein has generated during our various recording sessions for the upcoming new album (more on this soon!)--as well as a few choice samples culled from freesound.org (best evar)--I put together a little something:

Invades Us To The Skin

Letting this play softly in the background while you go about your business is actually rather soothing, it turns out; you can easily concentrate on whatever task is at hand and leave your subconscious to frolic through the peaks and valleys of the arhythmic sonic landscape.

It's kinda like Chet Baker for the tattooed, heavily bearded set...

Why I Love Her

If you've ever wondered, well, wonder no more. This is the question posed by a routine Facebook quiz:

17. Would you go out to eat with George W. Bush?

And this is my love's answer:

I would. I would pick his brain. It would not take too long. Then I'd try to cut him.

Isn't she just the sweetest thing you could ever hope to meet?

44: The Deformering

Eugene Robinson rightly concludes:

"Here's the least surprising news of the week: Americans are souring on the Democratic Party. The wonder is that it's taken so long for public opinion to curdle. There's nothing agreeable about watching a determined attempt to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory."

Observing the process up to this point, I would say the exact same thing, except with more exclamation marks, OMGZ, references to strange smells, and quotations from Proust.

There are some balls that desperately need to be kicked in this evolving situation, and most of them reside in Max Baucus's pants.

Notice I say "most" when the maximum number of balls possible in Max Baucus's pants--anatomically speaking--is two (2). By saying "most," have I forgotten all the hours from my youth locked in the bathroom confirming and reconfirming these two simple facts of the male physique? No, I remember those hours well. I say "most" because no one else on the left side of the aisle seems able to prove his--or her--possession of such apparently rare and precious stones.

Not that it's a mystery where the Dem's shriveled orbs of courage (-5 vs. Expected Attacks) have disappeared to. See that candy-colored music box over on the Republican side of the aisle? The one playing the chintzy, nursing home remix of "Sabotage" on repeat? They're in there, right next to a pack of C Street Foundation brand condoms ("hushed-up, for his pleasure") and Larry Craig's bathroom pass.

Still don't see it? It's that box right there, the one unceremoniously shoved under Chuck Grassley's desk, its spherical contents left undisturbed by the Finance Committee member since he clearly has more than he needs...

Health Care Deform

I go away for a week, expecting that on my return I will be greeted with the socialist utopia my comrades and I worked so hard to usher in this past election day. Or, barring that, at least a forced confinement to a dirty hospital bed before being given an unneeded root canal sans anesthetic. Just because it's free.

But no. Instead, I find this:


see more Fail Blog

...which is about as intelligently argued as this.

Rebuttal, anyone? Oh, well thank you, Rep. Frank.

How To Tickle An Autodidact

Sneak a fingertip between his frets and yell out a chord name.

I have so many musical concoctions whose structures I can't even begin to describe properly. This site promises endless hours of elated "huhs!" and "so that's what I was playing?!"

Woe be the neighbors...

In From The Wild

My love and I are back from not-New York City and I have the poison ivy rash to prove it. I'd tell you where, but that would mean describing this wonderful, concealed little spot we two found in the underbru--okay, it's on my forearm.

And now, pictures! (Click 'em to big 'em.)

Right over there is not New York.

Doing my best Viking funeral impression.

Chillin' by the swimmin' hole.

A big goddamn spider, also chillin' by the swimmin' hole.

This may surprise some, but this is actually a picture of the surface of the sun. I know, I know; "where's all the fire?" you ask. Believe me, on the day in question this landscape was close to combustion. I know this because so were we.

Cooling off by a stream...

...and making a friend. Admittedly, this "friend" was trying to figure out if I was
edible, but hey, I'm a beggar not a chooser. Besides, I am edible.

Another friend, this one thankfully uninterested in the question of my edibility.

Finally, after our allotted number of mosquito bites and allergic reactions, my love and I waved a slow-motion goodbye to this:


...and hopped the train back to civilization. It was, in the end, a very nice vacation.

That way home...

Getting Wood

My love and I are trekking into the deep, dark woods of what might be New Jersey or is probably just an outer edge of New York State, but is--most certainly and most importantly--not New York City.

For a whole week, no less. That's, like, seven days in NYC time.

If any of you get bored while I'm off wrestling mosquitoes, I recommend opening this in your browser and turning on the little flash player at the top to provide some background tunes, then going and clicking on every single link provided by this guy. Good stuff.

Y'all play nice now. Or, if you don't, at least try to keep any spilled blood off the rug.

It's a bitch to get vital fluids off that thing...

Los Grumildos, A Review

If I learned anything from the presidency of George W. Bush, it's that sometimes you have to go above the filter and take your message straight to the people. Cut out the middlemen of elitist reviewers from fancy Northeastern publications! Let the People decide for themselves!

And then let them write down what they think in a little black book that you can, in turn, leaf through over a glass of Pisco with your new Peruvian friends. Of course.

So, after taking your medium above the media, then having people use a separate medium to share their thoughts on the quality of your medium--could there be a more concisely worked referendum?--what, you ask, do the People have to say for themselves?

"Delightfully grotesque. Excellent lighting."
-- Very Discerning Anonymous Theatergoer

I do so enjoy a friendly pat on my ars...

Gone, Baby, Gone (Updated)

My love is out of town.

I miss her.

/sappiness

~~~~

Update: Okay, she's back.

The Man With The Pan

Ever since we lost the "Also" From Juneau I've been exhibiting withdrawal symptoms. They say an effective therapy for former addicts is to give them something to do with their hands. Well, my love and I bought a digital camera.

And it has panorama.

The trembling has lessened considerably.






Hey, it's better for my health than suboxone or, god help me, finger painting...

DIV In The Park

Just a reminder: Deep In Vein plays Tomkins Square Park today, around 1 or 2pm, as part of the Unquiet Riot festival.

It's a short set, about 15 minutes, but there should be plenty of people and plenty of food and drink. Get buzzed on our noise then on a neighboring establishment's brews!

Rizzawk.