jeff conlin - winter '05 archive

(no, i'm sorry, that's wistful)
Katy (2) had a very full 15 years... born in a drawer, she was determined to be a rugged individualist at an early age. Her first attempt out as a kitten resulted in getting stuck up a 50' tree 2 miles from home, with only the angry owls and her helpless meows to guide the brave men of the Conlin Kitten Rescue Commando Corps. She would continue to wake up every day eager to strafe the woods of south Bowie and terrorize the birds and squirrels within; or to help out with chores, following mom around the backyard as she took care of feeding the birds and fish, stopping to roll around in the catnip patch or stealthily try to catch a Koi only to realize they could likely eat her; or simply to warm the laps of just about anyone who could stand to sit there while she vibrated and clawed away in a state of bliss, licking fingers into nubs and shedding half her fur onto your clothing. She didn't mind sharing the backyard with ducks, deer, raccoons or possums, and had a not-so-secret crush on the gray stray that spent his winters under the rocking chair on the patio. When she really felt loving, she'd gleefully drop a dead mole at the doorstep, then swish her oversized tail around with pride as she waited for the praise. She was never late for dinner, and never quick to bite, and always happy to just be there (even when the evil neighbor cat bit off the aforementioned prized tail)

Not a bad life at all... so when the last few years' mysterious weight loss and increasing seizures finally come to a hilt and start to make sense in the process (tumors in the stomach and brain), it's probably no good to elect to have painful surgeries and drug treatments in very un-woodsy atmospheres. She's buried next to her favorite tree, not far from where Fluffy, Farley, Sally, Katy (1), Buddy, Bobby, and Snuggy are.

(OK, so there was an established naming convention. Shirley sort of carries that on, and lo and behold she's right here next to me, purring away. In the last few days, she's begun to take on Katy's signature incessant licking as well.)

I'm a little down as she was the first long-term cat to pass that was under my watch from kittenhood (Tiffy still soldiers on close to 20 now)... but thinking about a day in the life of that cat also makes me realize just how incredible the home Mom and Dad built really is, and how inseparable the yard, the people, the animals, the stories, and the love are from one another. At the time, it was just the fun, easy way life was supposed to be, but looking back I realize I was damn lucky to be raised in the middle of all of that.

Dad heads to Florida for the Big Road Trip, and to play softball in the national Senior Olympics yet again. He's also going to take care of catching up with some old neighbors, friends, and distant relatives, making a 10 (give or take) day sojourn in the roadster, most of that time with the top down, I hope. Not quite the greatest start to a trip like that, but I hope its very fulfilling for him on a lot of levels. I could use one of those myself right about now. But I guess a remote beach in rural Jamaica in May will have to do.

And on that note, Daddy's gotta get to the gym. Can't be the hot single Best Man in Jamaica with the tuxedo shirt unbuttoned while sipping a pina colada, splayed out on a hammock as the ocean breeze jiggles the man-tits...

Oh, on the fun tip... CityPaper did a hilarious article on J Roddy. The "Good Times" lick in question is all me, baby. Their EP release show was 2 Wycked, and once this tour's over they'll have some downtime putting together a slightly new lineup... so in the mean time, go grab the EP. It's friggin good.

Went to a wine tasting at The Vine last night. Woke up in Arlington this morning. Don't you hate it when that happens? But in a fit of day-off post-drama manic glee, I went to the Apple Store and somehow walked out of there with a sold-out and severely-backordered iPod Shuffle 1GB. After being told they weren't available for at least another couple of weeks, I mentioned something about wanting to primarily use it at the gym and on my motorbike, and after an awkward pause, the swishy salesman discreetly "hooked me up". With the iPod.

- in light of recent emotional events, I'd like to once again state the simple fact that if I were gay, my life would apparently be MUCH easier. While women tend to enjoy keeping me close, but not too close... men unabashedly ask if I'm on their team. Ah well... the love of soft round parts will always prevail despite the inherent emotional angstiness (the "you're the most incredible person in the world, but..." club just inducted a new member - but I'm not ranting about that here... just fun to joke about in a self-deprecating sort of manner... you can't ask anyone to do anything but be honest, even though sometimes that takes a lot of effort) -

But, yeah, now I understand this weird crack-like addiction people have to their iPods. The full-size ones never appealed to me. The idea of having my whole music collection on me at all times is nice... but almost overwhelming, not to mention the delicacy of a $400 appliance in your pocket. I break things. Often.

But no moving parts, 17 hours of capacity, and surprisingly good sound quality (the d/a converter and preamp are both very good quality to my ears) for $149 seems like a good idea. Been using it for a few hours and I'm already in love with it. The genius of the iPod is that its only as good as what you put on there. But if you're like me and your music collection is friggin' fantastic, then everything it randomly plays makes you smile. You start to develop a completely irrational "friendship" with the appliance... assuming that it somehow knows what you want to hear and plays it for you. In the end, the Shuffle is basically a machine whose only purpose is to make mixtapes for you non-stop, and when you view mixtape creation as a separate and emotionally-weightedl artform in and of itself... the connection with the device is that much stronger. Ahh, Steve Jobs is f'n brilliant.

Much has been written about the iPod phenomenon, and the Shuffle takes it an interesting new direction. Frankly, I think most of the hype is just hype... Apple's target market likes to be self-congratulatory, but I must say that in the last few hours, this thing has surprised me many times over and allowed me to listen to my music collection with a set of very fresh ears, which when you're a snottier-than-average music fan, makes for a very good afternoon. Plus Shirley thinks it tastes good.

(to Helen, on Valentine's Day)
Thoroughly intended to hit the gym hard tonight, but took an emotional detour. While looking for a long lost MP3, I stumbled into old emails, photos, writings, etc backed up onto CDs from '95-99. Digital scrapbooks rule.

So... in response to all the heavy shit that's been going on in the last two weeks, and in the spirit of the dumbest holiday on earth, I wish to offer a story that ties pretty much everything in the last few weeks together almost too well.

After making great strides in my musical maturity (including technique, historical appreciation, and authenticity) once college started, I also had the great fortune of making good friends in that regard. One night, my groove-centirc friend James called me up to tell me about an ad he found. "Free mint condition Hammond C-2 to the right home. Call for details." I was on the phone in minutes. The gentleman got straight to the point... he didn't want to accept any money for the organ, but he had to get to know who it was going to... basically conduct an interview first. 8 hours later, James and his truck were headed south outta PA to pick me up and hightail it down to Roanoke, VA.

A very nice man in his early 60s greeted us in front of the cozy little house. He invited us inside, and it was one of the warmest, most comfortable homes I've ever been in (and if you've ever seen where I grew up, that's saying a hell of a lot). Sure enough in the corner of the living room, was a 100% perfect, mint-condition cherrywood Hammond C-2 console. A small lamp sat on top, flanked by black and white portraits. The man sat us down and started telling the story.

"The organ was mom's... she died in the late 80s, and it sat here unplayed until dad passed on a few weeks ago. My brother and I are now going through the house, and the organ was something we were really torn on. In the end, we decided it needed to go to someone special... who could play it, understand its story, and never turn it around for profit." He then basically launched into an interview. Wanted to know about me, my life, my music, my basic morals. He then went further into the story. "Mom was the premier theatre organist in Roanoke in the 30s. Dad was an usher at one of the theaters, and they fell madly in love. After the war, they settled down and she started playing in churches. Despite her incredible talent, her alcoholism became the source of too much church gossip and she was "excused" after a few years. She was humiliated and went into a severe depression. Devistated, Dad went out to the new Hammond retailer in town and put down their entire life savings... $3600 cash... on this brand new 1953 model, and had it delivered to this very spot so she could play music whenever she wanted to."

The more he told us about his parents, the organ, and the family's love for music, the closer James and I... two scruffy 20-ish hipsters who on the surface didn't seem to fit in the story whatsoever... came to tears. Apparently Mom never set foot in church again, but every Sunday was at the helm of the organ, letting loose some thundering hymns... neighbors even came over to quietly listen to her Sunday morning living room routine. The organ also became the biggest symbol of their enduring marriage, both the positives and negatives.

The man excused himself for a moment, seemingly overwhelmed with emotion. He came back a few minutes later with glasses of lemonade in his hands. "Well, you've driven pretty far... and you seem like a decent guy... want to give it a shot?"

Anyone whose seen a Hammond knows that there's a certain technique to starting one. Its very easy, but to the uninitiated, it often gets compared to kick-starting a motorcycle or spin-starting an airplane prop. "If you can get any sound out of this old piece of furniture... I guess its yours." Checking the fabric power cord to make sure it hadn't dry-rotted, I stumbled across a pile of old brown papers in a ziploc bag. Sure enough, the original invoice from Roanoke Hammond Organs showing "C-2 with PR40 Tone Cabinet with delivery" for $3600. There was also a meticulous maintenance log... apparently Mom was handy with an oilcan.

The power cord looked good, the tone cabinet was plugged in... and my heart was practically jumping out of its chest. Starter switch up... and the whirr of the starter motor begins. Its slow to build to speed, but after about 6 seconds, I click on the drive motor. The sound of precise spinning gears was followed shortly by the distinct smell of dust burning on hot vacuum tubes. I had a seat on the bench, pulled out my favorite drawbar setting, and played the first few notes of Amazing Grace. Out of nowhere, a white cat came running down the stairs, leapt up on top of the tone cabinet, and curled over on its back. The man sort of laughed and cried in the same breath and said, "he hasn't heard that thing since he was just a kitten... I guess it took us both by surprise," and sat down.

Nervous and somewhat uncomfortable, I stopped playing and tried making small talk about the incredible shape it was in. He asked me to play just a little bit more if I didn't mind, and I obliged. It was probably the worst I'd ever played in my life... but it was something.

The man went upstairs again, then came down with a gold plaque he wanted installed on the cheeckblock of the top manual. "To the glory of God and in loving memory of Helen. Roanoke, VA"

"All I ask is that you leave that on there, and never sell it. If you can't keep it, just make sure it stays somewhere where it will be played." As we carefully moved it into James' truck, the living room carpet beneath the organ was a bright eggshell, while the rest of the room was a dark beige. 45 years it sat in the same place...

<sigh>

Now after two years of playing it every Sunday, things went south and I haven't been the best steward of that thing since... well actually, the chuch I gave it to hasn't been. I've promised myself this spring after a 5 year estrangement from it, I will find a far more suitable home for Helen's Hammond... but that's not so much the point.

Actually, there is no real point. But its nice to think back on a day filled with examples of what true love, dedication, sacrifice, and inspiration are about... and not the petty bullshit we tend to focus on day to day. Plus as I sit there and moan and bitch about being lonely, feeling unappreciated, being the eternal plan B; I have to remember that like that white cat... we've all probably heard the song before, and know what to listen for. Next time the music plays, there's no excuse for not jumping up and checking it out. Probably won't be the person you first heard playing the song, but everyone adds their own personal touch, and you might be surprised with what you hear.

Yikes.

And on that note, one of my top-3 favorite recordings... caught on tape by another friend from that era, Scott Hawthorn of Seattle. The late Jack McDuff on organ, playing an incredible rendition of his "Gospelette" immediately after being told of the death of Sonny Stitt in 1982. McDuff kicks the session off, "Gonna lay my head down and cry, y'all." and just launches into it, then segues into the ultimate organ blues song, "Another Goddun" Amazing.

(scroll down to the link on this page, streaming low-band RA)

(veinmelter)
That's the way weekends should go. Caught up with Mofofunka at New Haven Friday night. Some of the magic I see in the story of Stax shows itself there. A bunch of mid-20s honkys from the suburbs playing some of the sickest jazz/funk/soul around at the city's notorious jazzcentric club, for an audience of young, old, black, and white alike. And doing it damn well, too.

Worked a decent day Saturday, took home a '99 BMW R1100RT (with radio) for the weekend, then headed up to the Baltimore Motorcycle Show and was drafted into working there, but was paid with a dinner at An Poitin Still. Headed back pumping the Saturday night old-school hip hop show from one of the r'n'b stations, and went into the belly of the beast (Power Plant Live) to check out the last few minutes of the Mike Clark's Prescription Renewal

show. Sort of a weak venue (Ram's Head Live), but great music.

Today was spent putting a few hundred miles on this big green German beast rambling through some very beautiful places in Pennsylvania while smiling non-stop and alternating my listening between classic rock, bluegrass, and the new HFS-revival broadcasts going on at night and on the weekends on 105.7FM. Apparently in response to the outcry, Infinity Broadcasting retained the best HFS DJs and are actually playing *much* better music than HFS ever did in its last few years. Combined with XPN, WRNR, and WTMD, there is a lot of new hope in local radio all of the sudden.

Well, first off... inarguably the most well known player in jazz organ history passed on Tuesday night. Jimmy Smith is the first (and often only) name dropped when folks who know even just a little bit about real music talk organ... and rightfully so. He was one of the most energetic and charismatic players of a generation who took a brash, overly-mechanical instrument synonymous with liturgical or theater/rink duty, and transformed it into one of the most recognizable sounds and styles in modern American music.

I know I owe much of my initial love of Hammond organ to him, long before I knew who he was. Outside of Parliament and JB, he's probably one of the most-sampled musicians for hip hop breaks (especially the Beastie Boys). Eventually getting my first Hammond and abandoning the synth world, I listened and imitated him like everyone in that revivalist period of the mid-90s did. Find me an organ player under the age of 35 who doesn't sound a little (or a lot) like Jimmy and I'll give you $20 right now.

While most know his trademark hard-hitting blues and funk style, his initial sound was so thick with his church roots, a solid understanding of bop, respect for the pioneers before him (Wild Bill Davis and Milt Buckner, especially), and pushed the tonal limits of of the instrument. Keep in mind the percussion circuit Smith so heavily relied on later down the road was a completely new invention with the rollout of the Hammond "-3" models in 1955.

Here's a gorgeous early-era ballad from "Groovin' At Small's Paradise (live)" circa 1957. I particularly love this track for the ambient club sounds that made it to Rudy Van Gelder's mic. The electromechanical abrasiveness of the Hammond is easily overlooked as Smith smoothly works his mastery on not only the pedals and lower manual, but also with the expression pedal and use of chorus and Leslie, fully pushing the relatively new instrument's capabilities. The staccato hits and smears into fat chords around 4m48s are still heard regularly in Joey DeFrancesco's playing... and God bless that guy, as he and few others are now carrying the torch left by McDuff, Smith, Groove, and Shirley Scott... (I'd give it a shot, but I think I hit my wall years ago and will continue to just be a fan and hobbyist when it comes to the real deal). My Funny Valentine (11:03 - 10mb)

During the last decade of Smith's life, audiences continued to flock, but were often left with a bad taste. Though you have to respect anyone that keeps gigging right up to the end, Jimmy would book shows, then bail, or worse play a song, curse at the shitty shape of the organ on stage, curse out the audience, and leave altogether. But there were still some outstanding sets, well into his final years. Here's a clip from a show of his I caught in Boston around 2000... a full 45 years after his professional career began. Despite the age, and arthritis... the man still had more soul shut up in his bones than most, and in this particular cut... had a hell of a lot of fun. 8 Counts for Rita - live (10:53 - 10mb)

Well... that impromptu musical obituary aside... last week's relative absurdity continues. After thinking that everything was cut and dry, and spending a good deal of time emotionally disconnecting myself from something I had (somewhat errantly, admitted) focused a lot of time and attention on, things turn upside down again.

Basically, Rachel was at a crossroads... one amazing crush with a guy turned into a long-distance relationship, while our growing (and local) friendship also showed signs of far more potential. She decided she had to follow through with Plan A much to my dismay, but in all honesty, I've been in her shoes and know the difficulty of that position. I also fully respect anyone who follows their heart outright. 'Course, the thing is... just a few days into setting down that path, her man breaks their entire relationship off in what is perhaps one of the all-time most pussified, disrespectful and cocktacular e-mails. Yes. Emails. To her work account, at that... ever.

So now folks want to know where that leaves "us"? Who the hell knows? Or really cares? We're still close friends, and the best thing right now is that I notice my difficulty in separating all the mopey Robert Smith style rejection BS from the base friendship is severely diminished now that I don't have this feeling of "losing" to someone. Maybe a little immature, yes, but it vibes well with my theory that, deep down, all of your emotions and reactions stem from who you were when you were about 11 years old to begin with. And right now, she sure doesn't need any more mopey emo whirlwinds either.

So weirdness was easily pushed aside when she called looking for someone to talk to, while fully realizing that it was stupendously ironic, absurd and ostensibly even cruel to call me. Plus, after months of claiming that she was eventually going to get a cat, the time was at hand, and Daddy has some experience in this field, as well as numbers to all the local shelter outlets and a De-lux Kitty Carrier ready to go. Honestly, there was something almost supernatural about the timing of Otis and Shirley's entrance into my life, and relying on the whole kitty-buzz for emotional support in tough times sure beats developing a smack habit. Plus there's the added karmic/fuzzy bonus about saving an adult cat from lethal injection, especially one so damn affectionate.

So we present to you Mr. Nathan Scott Phillips. (naming credits go to Meatwad)

(i knew a place)
Well, I was going to go ahead with a whole Memphis report, but it is actually not the news of the day. Tho in the interest of keeping my throngs of anonymous readers up to date, briefly...

The evenings were all about the music. We played our asses off. The first night had an energy and drive to it that we've never seen before. Even after following some intense competition (Patrick Smith and Kyle Daniel alone made us want to just forfeit altogether), we seemed to have both the audience's and judge's praise. But when the final announcements came in, neither the bands we looked up to, nor ourselves were on the list.

Not to cause a Chungesque shitstorm, but when 7 of the 10 bands that make it to the finals feature female lead singers... and there were only like 10 female-fronted bands... you gotta wonder what's up. Most folks throughout the town who had been attending the runoffs were talking all day Saturday about the serious letdown the finals announcements were. The Blues Society has a clear idea of what its promoting, and good for them for doing what they believe in... but I think they're kind of stifling what the Blues itself is actually doing among the people.

Either way, a disappointment, but no great upset there. We sort of figured the amount of 45 year old men wearing black leather jackets and ill-fitting berets were a clear enough sign that we shouldn't be focusing too much on that venue for approval and admiration. We had a ball, and made some great new friends.

The late nights were about going to as many venues as possible and catching other bands, drinking, cavorting, and that sort of thing.

The days started around 1pm or so, once I was out of bed. I did a lot of freelance walking around in the city, getting a feel for the city on its own, rather than just by the touristy spots. Memphis is a weird combination of old and new, neither of which seem terribly comfortable.

My dad, aunt, and her husband were down there as well, so we headed to the Stax museum together on Friday. The place I donated a pretty penny to back when I was actually making decent money, but more importantly, the place I dreamed would exist long before it ever did. Stax had a massive influence on my musical identity and understanding, 20 years after its demise, and I always dreamed someone would rebuild it as a museum. Apparently a lot of people around the world felt that way, and to be a part of the effort, then see the reward... just surreal.

Stax's existence is a story for the ages, a humble, unassuming studio cranking out the most raw, soulful music (itself a collage of just about every distinct American genre), made in the heart of the most segregated city in America by a fully integrated business and music staff. The museum just brought it all home that much further. From the get-go, the staff was nice and courteous, my name was actually on the list of lifelong members, and we all got in for free. The collections were thorough and very well laid out. Towards the end of the tour, you go into the orignal Studio A... as I walked in, I noticed a face... Turns out, it was none other than Little Milton. Now, if you've never heard the song, "That's What Love Will Make You Do", you are missing out. Best damn Stax song ever, in my book. And here I was... in Stax Studio A... a lifelong dream realized, all while looking eye to eye with one of my favorite performers from its heyday. Got a picture (which also features a very attractive Stax employee who spent most of her time in there checking out the enigmatic, energetic young Soul-slinger who wore her colors, but was not a regular presence - as most Founding Members are, apparently).

Later in the evening, after another excellent set, I was definitely more up for social cavorting. Nothing gives you self confidence like a $500 suit and the feeling that deep down, no one really gives a shit about you, at least enough to do anything about it.

Well, everywhere I went, people pulled me aside and slathered praise all over the place for how badass I am. Yeah, that's another Chungesque statement, but its true... and as humble as I am, it almost gets overwhelming to be standing there in the middle of Beale Street getting bombarded by quotes like, "If you don't win, my wife and I are both going to just kill ourselves."

Anyway, as I ventured out of one club, a gaggle of prosthelytizers were assembled with the standard banner charging that you can believe Christ was only one of three things, "Savior, Liar, or Nutjob". Well, not their exact quote, but close enough. Surely enough (Whiskey, cigar, and FLY ASS suit doin' their job), one of them approached me and started into the routine. Using quite a bit of scripture I picked up in the Christian indierock touring days, I was able to infuriate him with the idea that its his personal job to simply love humanity than be the sole judge of it, and love doesn't scream at people and call them names. He said my Biblical quotes were "total crap." Interesting... maybe if I ever see Jesus I'll let Him know what his 'warriors' think of his teachings.

So after successfully averting my inner Irishman's whisperings to just start swinging, I walk a mile over to the official open jam session for all entrants. On the way over, I start to comprehend the full weight of some emotional mojo hanging on the otherwise unclassified relationship between me and Rachel. Exactly what you want to think about on a night like that... having completely fallen for someone who is across the country blissfully gettin' busy with their short-term/long-distance man after three straight weeks of an uncomfortable, repititious "You're amaing and I like you a lot, but..."

The blues jam is a disappointment, plus I couldn't set up my own rig and was laughingly told, "Apparently you've never been to a jam.... just play the house piano." Been going to these things for 10 years, bitches... but I don't play piano. You wouldn't tell a bass player to just pick up a guitar. But I did however meet a few very cute girls there, one of which was 17, and the other (which I found out much later in the night at a slightly less comfortable moment) was married. Then they announce the disappointing finalists list. Oh, it was a very happy night all around.

Saturday, after the 2pm wakeup, I freelanced my way around the city some more and visited the Lorraine Motel, site of Martin Luther King Jr.'s assasination, and now the Civil Rights Museum. Talk about a little levity.

Actually, the feeling of standing in front of the Lorraine was far more powerful than the museum itself. As much as I wanted to enjoy it, the museum seemed very rough around the edges. No cohesive voice... an ultra-ultra Left take on everything that made even open-minded me a good bit weirded out, but more than anything else, a focus on the pain, struggle, emotion, and victimization that took place, rather than the slow but steady progress. Not saying that everything's better... but as one who grew up middle class and white in a largely upper-class black region... I'd say we're quite alright. Still, having an actual burned out Freedom Rider bus in front of your face is soul-shaking to say the least... but having an animatronic bus driver call you a nigger while you try to sit down is a little... silly.

Outside the museum, I noticed a small stand set up just off the property. A woman was standing quietly, surrounded by signs reading, "Fulfill the Dream, Boycott the Museum!" Very intrigued, I went up and started talking to her. Turns out Jacqueline Smith was one of the last tenants of the Lorraine before it was assumed by the State for the purpose of building the museum. She simply, nonviolently, argues that the money, press, and effort that went into the museum could have been far better used on actually helping the poor Memphiseans nearby rather than turning the historically-significant into a full-on gentrified "arts district" as its become, with the skyrocketing cost of living increases to boot.

All she wants is to point out is that the museum has turned into a political/planning coup to bring in both tourist and gentrifier money, and has very little to do with Dr. King's actual message... and frankly, I couldn't agree more. We talked for about an hour about just about everything under the sun (and agreed on most), and I would have probably stayed longer if I hadn't forgotten to eat that day. Grr.

As I walked away, I asked how long she'd been out there. "A little over 14 straight years now."

That's believing in something.

So I come back home and have some inspiration, some pain, and some tough questions. On top of all of that, there (of course) was still some further development of what a post-Mom world really is. Feeling much more free than I have been in some months, probably because I was falsely (and somewhat under my own lead) convinced into believing that I had some kind of relationship brewing... but now that such is not the case, I realize that not much is keeping me here but my kitties, and they don't mind car rides.

Still digging the BMW job for now, but a few other possibilities have poked their heads up. And I can't deny that the idea of playing music for a good while isn't still at the forefront, especially considering some of the connections I made out there.

I definitely want to start distancing myself from gigs and styles that I just don't enjoy. Sadly, I think that will mean far less blues gigs coming up, and possibly some all out resignations from other regular bands.

Coincidentally (or not) the day I start seriously mulling over that, Sean Beier calls and wants to start talking more seriously about collaboration and sharing of jazz/funk gigs and connections... as he's taking quite a bit of personal initiative with his music projects since his layoff (always a good thing), but can't keep up with demand. Well how 'bout that?

Then there's always the possibility of Colorado, New Orleans... the big tour that would conclude my continental US travel... Jazz Fest? Bonnaroo? Maybe a damn motorcycle that actually worked?

I don't think my rambling phase is remotely through, and I am surprised I was so quick to mentally start to settle in, even if just a little bit. I just finished my tax return... I made $18,000 last year, **$18,000** ... and I'm doing quite alright if you ask me. I think I can do that again for another year or two if I really make the adventure worth it. Skirting the poverty line is FUN!

So I'm not terribly depressed... but its been a lot to swallow in a few short days... I just feel like I'm back at last spring again, and despite the uneasiness, that was one of the better times of my life thanks to its spontenaety and brutal honesty.

On my way to Taco Fiesta for dinner tonight, there was a little yellow Duplo block sitting on the sidewalk in front of my driver's side door. Something about that made me smile.

Crickets... I gotta sleep.

(i know a place)

Well, the Memphis sojurn is over, and it was definitely a bit of a roller coaster. I'll go into more detail later, but for now you can have some pictures.

I noticed I also have a bunch of kitty pix that never made their way online, so they're up, too.

In the meantime... look at the picture below and imagine pacifist little me almost beating up a street preacher.

(sucker factory)
Memphis-bound here in a few hours... taking my shot at the International Blues Compeition. The whole concept of blues-stardom is completely absurd... but... by the same token... Daddy could use a few years of being paid to just dick around with a hobby. Oh wait, I'm already doing that.

Lots to talk about... but no time... plus Rachel's enroute for burrito consumption, so no time to dilly and/or dally.

In the meantime, this is the best picture of me, ever.

(everybody gotta get on board)
I'm still alive... just been without a cablemodem (or free time for that matter). Since we last spoke, we had the Great Four Inches of Snow of '05. That begat the Great Sunday of Loafing. Mix in a few good DVDs, long snowy drives, sleep sleep sleep, some chocolate-bourbon cake, a long meritless walk in search of a sled, and a moment of pore-cleansing surreality (picture pending) and you have yourself one hell of a weekend. Well, almost. Still debating where I should put my "Plan B" tattoo. I'm thinking across the stomach a-la Tupac. (Oh, c'mon a little levity never hurt no one)

It was also the kitties' first ever snow... but city cat life dictates that you just enjoy it from the window, and they did.

Sadly, Rachel's family endured a heavy blow to the gut the next day... cancer's a bitch, especially when it sneaks up on you. Being her first time really dealing with death up close, it obviously wasn't easy... but seeing her introspection and general thought processes, combined with what is clearly a loving, close-knit family made me think back to my family's last few months, and last few years, really. Still not sure how I got such a zen outlook on the whole matter... but with my only close uncle and both grandparents leaving this plane within three years of eachother, I guess we did have a bit of emotional prep before mom's untimely passing. I still sometimes wonder why I didn't completely lose my shit and freak out at any point in there (except for that one surreal day with Kristin) (ref. Plan B) I guess we were lucky in the surprise nature of it all and complete lack of drawn-out suffering.

Actually, Dad, Andy, Sara and I spent this evening looking back over old pictures... ones I don't even think I've ever seen before. Great way to spend an evening - somewhat bittersweet, but far more emphasis on the sweet all tolled. Always nice to have a clear understanding of just how blessed life has been so far, even when realizing that over half the pictures of me as a child show an incredibly stoic, almost melancholy little kid (when I'm not eating snow or running naked through the house with a fireman hat on - not that I've really stopped doing either of those things).

Dad also mentioned that he's more or less dating again. I had a hunch, but didn't really feel like thinking about it too much. Obviously he's allowed to do whatever he wants to, but it still struck Andy and I as awkward and uncomfortable. I mean, after Kim, I had to take a year and a half off and really reevaluate/reorganize my life, and she and I just didn't find the vibe after 4 years... there was no 35 years of amazing family life in there as well.

Not trying to be selfish... and Lord knows I have no idea what the last few months have felt like for him, or how he's even pulled through like he has, much less any room to talk (ref. Plan B) - just want to make sure he has enough time to really process everything, not only for himself, but for whomever he does decide to date eventually... because no one needs a few tons of baggage thrown at 'em, or worse someone trying to recreate another time and place in the here and now. Does that make any sense, or am I just being paranoid and preachy?

(classic, total classic)
All at once, the young content manager working the evening shift felt a surge of adrenaline, smug superiority, and pernicious sheniganry. Within the next hour he was both fired, and congratulated heartily. An hour later, a round of drinks had been purchased in his honor at a small Atlantan tavern, while hundreds of thousands around the world giggled to themselves and instant-messaged their friends.

No one really knows what happened to that young web lackey after that fateful day, but ten years later, halfway through the Sharpton Administration's second term, wonk-junkies still sit around the campfire and tell the story of the Ol' Headliner and his fleeting blaze of glory.

(baby blues)
My adventures are purely local for the next few months ('cept for Memphis and Jamaica), but Mr. Doug's travels to (heh) Portland, OR are my current vicarious roadtrip fix. Live the dream!

What a week. Worked my fool ass off at the shop getting my pet project-bike wrapped up and ready for the DC International Motorcycle Show. Basically, BMW makes a really nice streetbike (R1150RR) that is completely emasculated with bad paint, silly graphics, and not-quite-usable ergonomics. I took what they had and made it what it should have been... and thensome. Actually, I just did to it what I've always wanted to do to that type of BMW, long before I even worked there. It wound up being a major head-turner at the show, demonstrating some very un-BMW attitude, but retaining a definite European identity. BMW Certified Tech and general all-out hooligan Steve Slunt was my accomplice on this one, and I'm sure more special-issue projects will be coming along in the future. Bob loved it, and BMW Corporate was definitely impressed, as were the throngs of people crowding, touching, and drooling around it at the show. I'd say it commanded more attention than the previously-never-before-seen K1200S on display - but maybe that's because no one was allowed to touch or sit on that one.

Friday's potentially awful blues gig in Laurel actually turned out quite well. Old friends of both mine and Henry's filled the room, and I even wound up with the bestest birthday present ever - a free home-cooked meal by the Snow family. I knew I did the right thing proposing to Melissa in middle school. Well, home cooked meals or not, that's still a win-win. Ol' Bigfoot was on drums and claimed a three-and-a-half week milestone of being drug and alcohol free. His drumming was spot-on (first I'd heard that in a long time), and after the second set break, his lapse into a few bourbons was still well under control. Good for him... the difference in his drumming is amazing. I feel for the guy... its not easy, but damn was he hard to take before this turnaround.

Caught the most-rockin'est J Roddy show Saturday night and introduced Erik Mitchell to the band. Roddy's already asking questions... homeboy can definitely drum, and people at the show even told him they loved his playing... despite the fact he didn't play at all. With his fro and lanky suaveness, he'll fit right in.

Now's the time. Speaking of which, congrats to the heroic Water School who now has worldwide representation and the thirst for domination. Hopefully I'll be playing with them more... I need some new projects right now. Not that I have any ill will towards folks like the WBB or Clarence... just the opposite... but damn if 1-4-5 doesn't get seriously old after 9 years.

Wrapping up day #6 of 12 straight 10-hour days, but at least they've been relatively enjoyable if not challenging. There really is something great about waking up and actually wanting to go to work every day, then going home at the end of the day and not really thinking about it much.

Rachel's on her way over for the devouring of carcasses. Otis is currently trying to devour mine. Those are pretty much the only routines around here lately, and I don't mind either in the least. November, shitty as it was, had its moments of profound serendipity. Plan B still pokes its ugly head about, but so what... guess it beats Plan C.

Pass the peas, like we used to say-

(the creature thus be born!)
One of the most mellow birthdays ever... but maybe that's not a bad thing. Hiking, hilarity, good food, good company, and lots of sleep - all of which come in handy when fighting off a cold and sorting out some of the heaviest feelings ever. Its also been a great couple of days for those surreal moments that should beat me into insanity but instead provide a hearty guffaw.

For instance... came home last night intent on taking a relaxing, well-deserved stress-relief bath (Rachel even gave me some aromatic bath salts for total emasculation) but my water heater is painfully small and I wound up soaking in slightly-colder-than-room-temperature water for 20 minutes or so before the shivering became unbearable. But at least there was rum (thanks, moto!) and admittedly-good-smellin's (thanks, Rachel!).

Or today, I spent an hour and a half fixing all the small problems I could figure out on the motorbike, hoping that will finally address the major problems it has. Nope. Instead, I just barely avoid a complete mid-rush-hour breakdown in the middle of the Harbor Tunnel on my test ride. Then while putting my tools away, I smash my finger and get a mean blood blister. Then tonight, I met up with Sara for some post-meltdown quality time. About three blocks before I park, I start hearing a strange sound. My rear right tire picked up what looked like a large shard of aluminum. Further inspection reveals a completely destroyed tire, and no jack or lugwrench - I forgot to replace them after the laundry-detergent incident (but damn my car still smells great).

A call to AAA and a stroll over to Caribou... felt kind of nice to be back in Adams Morgan, back on common ground with Sara, and drinking the "dark" coffee. 15 minutes later, AAA calls. Right on... not a bad night at all. Only the tow truck driver has neither a jack nor a lugwrench... no problem, says he... he'll just call for a van. 3 hours later (and about four times being told, "just another 20 minutes"), the church whose parking lot I was stuck in got broken into and the alarm went off. When two police officers showed up to investigate, lo and behold one of them had the tools I needed. The spare was on, Sara and I stopped shivering, the cops were thanked (a rare occasion indeed), and I was pulling out of the lot when who whould appear but the AAA tow truck. In my rear view mirror. Bye. Bastards.

But all was not lost. I'm now the first-ever straight man to own and wear a Youn Original. Got me a badass fuzzy hat, yessir.

Busy week ahead, but good stuff on the horizon. Hopefully that will make up for the $200 I am going to shell out tomorrow for new tires. But its hard to focus on that, 'cause O-tay is once again smashed up against my right hand... <snore>

(pianos filled with flames)
Tonight, O-tay is smooshed up against my left hand. A little harder to type, but far more entertaining as his head bobs up down with the frightening frequency of my furious fingers.

It has been brought to my attention that my words have been rather cryptic and abstract lately. Sorry 'bout that. When I spend time in my head for too long, I start talking like I think. And believe me, you want to hear as little of that as possible. Also, look to your right and notice the year-in-pictures spread. All told, not a bad year...

So I'm a fatass. Fat fatty fatness. I've gained about 10lbs in recent months due to a variety of reasons, but in general, I just haven't been taking care of myself at all. Not that I'm capable of doing so anyway, but recently its been awfully sad. I just returned from the prettiest Safeway on Earth with an armful of fruits, vegetales, soy products, juices, and cat litter (mmmm). I have a key to a gym that isn't mine, but I also have an impending cold (both thanks to one spunky yet phlegm-filled Ms. Dean, who would get a link only her blog is shrouded in secrecy...), so I'm doubting the exercise portion of the routine will begin immediately, but soon... very soon.

I have neglected the kitties a bit this week (also due in part to the aforementioned sniffly lass), but they're becoming fat and unhealthy too... so we're all eating lighter. Of course, Otis did make me bleed in a not-so-fun place yesterday as I towelled off from my shower. I hope he was just aiming for the towel, but maybe it was revenge for being neutered. Now he's eating the shock cords on my nifty new $8 Old Navy hiking pants that are a complete ripoff of the design of my $84 Pranas.

Speaking of outdoor wear, I went out to HTO intent on buying new trail running shoes (again with the fit of newfound health inspiration), and was told flat-out that my feet are monstrously wide (EEE) and there's no real point in getting anything from the store because they don't carry custom widths. That explains my frequent ankle-buckling a little better... though doesn't help me and my new hurried spark of fitness-consciousness much. I wanted to get out for a quick run tomorrow before work. At least, I say I wanted to, which is almost as good as doing it, right? 'Course, another thing this shoeist's opinion does is lend creedence to a particular urban legend. Bada-bing!

Just finished up consolidating all of my insurance policies onto one statement and carrier (USAA, woohah!), and found out I saved roughly $600 by doing so. That's 20 bottles of Knob Creek 9-Year. Money is far easier to imagine when put into terms of good whisky. Anyway, now its just a quiet night at home catching up on domestic needs. I have neither clean clothes, dishes, or a soul. Gonna be a long night.

Impending cold (combined with some re-prioritized friendship status) probably puts the kibosh on Birfday Weekend madness... next week is the debut of two "special-edition" BMW models I planned at the International Motorcycle Show at the DC Convention Center... (not to mention a well-attended gig in Laurel with Clarence). Those could be a good tie-in to later-evening all-out debauchery fitting a Birfday Weekend title.

For now, back to laundry and kitties, with a strong aftertaste of bliss, confusion, and Tylenol Cold&Flu.

(spine tingling toast)
A little bit of resolution on one end - as I'm not much of a bridge burner, but I must be true to myself before others. Of course, there are reactionary ways of doing that which result in a thick scab, and more reasonable ways of doing it which result in a barely-noticable scar.

Elsewhere, a lot of tension and stress sourced from somthing that just seems like it could be so simple and right (but when is anything in my life those two things - yes, I know I'm an emo-lyric-genius). As a wise old man recently told me, "Sometimes ya just gotta compete." I always tend to look down on the concept of competition, but then situations like these - usually of the heart - remind me that not everything in life has an answer that pleases everyone. Not that its a competition of sorts... but...

Not to blather, just some heavy stuff out of the blue.

I need to come up with some plans for Birfday Weekend and fast. Ideas?

Here are three words you can make with the word "peas" :
APES, PESA, SEAP. Well, maybe not words. They're probably acronyms or something.

Now who wants ice cream?

(the dude abides)
O-tay is smooshed up against my right hand, so typing isn't terribly easy, but it is terribly cute.

First off... Wednesday night marked the bittersweet arrival of Mike Roy back to Baltimore. It was good to have him back.

So, uhh... happy friggin' new year, huh?

A pattern for this year has already been started. Actually, its a pattern I may well have established as a little kid. Mentally set yourself up for failure, so then when things do eventually work out, you feel utterly phenomenal about it.

The gig on New Years Eve looked like a nightmare up until about half an hour before showtime. I was so excited, then as it looked like the whole thing was going to be a wash, completely frustrated. Then, in a frenzied ball of energy and illegal substances, Mr. Batiste Jr. strolled into the Funk Box, met me in the green room, demanded his bottle of Jack, and went to town sketching out rough chord charts of one of his most complex songs. Keep in mind he never sent me a practice CD or anything. Halfway through the chart, he chucked it aside and said, "Screw it, man... if you don't know what to do... don't do nothin'. Other than that, wing it."

First set was nice and tight... covering a lot of old soul/funk favorites. Cold Duck Time, Chameleon, Pass the Peas, and some Papa Grows Funk favorites. Amazing audience, lots of support... Russell made sure to let everyone in the crowd know that I was pulling everything outta my posterior, and was doing a damn fine job at it, too. The Bridge and All Mighty Senators took the 11-4 sets, and I went out gallavanting around the town. That part gets kinda blurry... but it unsurprisingly involved Mum's, Irish Car Bombs, champagne, The Vine, and Colin's backyard.

Made it back to the Funk Box just before the second set was to start (4:30a). Leo Nocentelli showed up, but was in awful shape from a bad head cold. There was also a full-on pimp in the green room with us. Purple hat, suit, tie, shoes, and full length mink coat. And lots of coke. But no honeys. Anyway, Leo was in no shape to spell things out for me, and he wanted to do more Meters stuff... which is simple, but filled with complex breaks, polyrhythms, etc. I just locked eyes with Russell who broke it down as best as he could with hand signals. I felt like a moron, but approval both from on and off stage helped calm that down. Sean Beier, who hooked me up with the gig to begin with, was right in the front cheering us on. At one break, Leo himself (the man who wrote pretty much all of the Meters' catalogue) took a special moment to point out that I was working twice as hard as anyone else on stage, and doing a pretty good job of it. Just surreal. Humble as I try to stay, that was a massive boost to the ego.

After all was said and done, I tried to just gracefully head out of there without being a fame whore to either of them. Leo thanked me again, as did his wife and entourage. Russell handed me a CD of one of his more popular side projects (Orkestra from da Hood) and told me to learn the material, and he'd probably be in touch for some mid-Atlantic gigs. Suh-weet.

Got home fairly late in the morning and crashed out on the sofa for a while. Then headed over to Rachel's to get fat and introduce her to The Big Lebowski. Surprising plot twists, brutal honesty, and a dearth of fried stuff completed the next 24 hours. Good times.

So, like I said... maybe the pattern for this year has already been set. '04 was very similar to '03 in that it was such an eclectic mix of extreme highs and lows. Tonight's not the recap... hell, you can just scroll through the archives for that. Nah, tonight's just a way of exhaling, scratching my head in astonishment, and thinking that if the first two days of '05 are any indication... this could be an even wilder ride than the last two years. And that's impressive.

(tired but he don't mind)
Real quick : "The Life Aquatic" is a stylistic masterpiece featuring ingenuity in form, flow, and delivery. Not typically Andersonian in character development or plot depth, instead it spends its time establishing a style and vibe that is very compelling. Not for everyone, in fact I think a lot of its amazing attributes aren't really even noticeable to most moviegoers... but its phenomenal. The only way I can describe it (and if you went nuts for Rushmore than you'd understand), is that it is a two-and-a-half-hour-long Max Fisher production.

(*Editor's note : this statement was made before reading that the Onion AV Club reviewer said essentially the same thing. I have witnesses.)

OK, FUNK BOX NEW YEARS EVE.

We're not being billed as The Funky Meters, but instead "Batiste, Nocentelli, and friends" since the lineup isn't technically original. At least I'm a friend!

We're opening the night off around 9, then closing it out around 4:30.

Admission is... $79 for everything. I guess its their way of keeping the Funk Box from getting overcrowded, and from keeping the bartenders busy keeping track of tabs. Russell Batiste is supposedly paying me out of his own pocket, though hopefully some other nice bonuses might materialize.

Russell just called me and said he forgot to send a practice CD. "We'll just jam on it... no big deal... it'll be aight."

Well right on.

Off to Golden West for surprise Mike Roy madness. I love this city.

(no, that's the Necronomacon)
So did everyone have a nice Christmas? We did. Surprisingly nice, actually. Then I had a completely non-productive Sunday (16 hours of sleep), a wild Sunday night (at The Vine, no surprise), then back to work today.

Funny that the holidays and family times of the last few weeks have actually been the most stable, comfortable, and calm considering this time of year was mom's favorite, and a lot of memories, traditions, and overall holiday feelings are inexorably attached to her. Well, more to the point, that might have a lot to do with that comfort and warmth. Just can't get past the feeling of blessing of having her there to begin with, rather than a feeling of grief or loss.

No, the instability, frustration, and emotional rollercoaster of late has been more tied to completely unrelated pursuits... for instance, take a conversation tonight that played out like the last 5 minutes of an M. Night Shyamalan movie.

Everything I thought I understood about this one particular mystery was more or less wrong. One small detail heretofore withheld from the plot has been dropped in and changes the scope of the whole storyline to begin with... so what did not make sense does now make a lot more, but there's a strong sense of bewilderment, shock, and frustration that comes from that as well. That weird balance of feeling happy that you finally see the bigger picture, against just the generally sleazy feeling of getting played.

Maybe a bit overwrought, but... no, maybe not. If nothing else, Joe Pesci may have actually been on to something. "It's the bitches that'll getchas."

Enough with this Plan B nonsense. I'm sick being a smiling doormat. The calendar's about to turn over... again... just a friendly reminder...

(rats off to ya)
First off, my gift to you : the yearly posting of what has to be (in my world, at least) the best Christmas song of all time. Donny Hathaway's "This Christmas".

After a very low week, one of the best days in a long time, kicked off of course with a long-overdue sleep-in. Almost like it was the first day of Winter Break from college. In that vein, met up with Bob, Kas, Q, and Cito for lunch buffet gluttony, geeking out, catching up, and a rally-style trip to Best Buy for general consumer whoredom.

Came home to surprise UPS shipments, a quick nap, a long-overdue bout of long distance self psychotherapy to combat the dark cloud that's been following my sorry ass around for most of this week... still no clear answers and still a nagging constant drone in my head of "Plan B... Plan B...", but at least a lot more depth and insight than the simple grumpy frustration that's so easy to jump to in these emotional situations. But none of that really matters right now, because that call was then followed by a surprise phone call HOOKING ME UP WITH A NEW YEAR'S GIG PLAYING WITH THE FUNKY METERS.

That one still hasn't sunk in really... I don't know the details, beyond it being two sets at the Funk Box. Since he was otherwise engaged, Sean Beier hooked me up after Russell Batiste asked him. Once again, "Plan B" status is echoing, but who the hell cares? It's the METERS! Sean is my new best friend. Talked to Russell, he's sending a CD, and we're probably going to spend most of New Years Eve day rehearsing for the first time.

Could be the biggest gig of my life (though not for long, as the Int'l Blues Competition is just around the corner - but what a way to warm up for that). THE F*@#'n FUNKY METERS!

Once I got high enough on that euphoria, I headed over to Talking Head to hear Chris, Doug, Dave, Ned and a bunch of other regulars/miscreants, not to mention partake in the free punk rock spaghetti. There was also the less than stellar moment of hearing the tragic news of Matt Scoggins sister... it's going to be a very difficult Christmas for a lot of people this year, no doubt. But Matt, bless his drunken self, was also enthusiastic about getting me in as more of a regular with Water School... so that can't possibly be bad. Doug closed our part of the night out with what is going to be his last Baltimore performance in a while as life takes him over to Portland, OR next week.

General debauchery and storytime with Doug, Colin & Lisa at Club Chuck later on wrapped it all up. Busy week ahead... and who knows what the next 48 hours is going to feel like. At least I'm going in a little more upbeat than I was headed a few days ago.