The Cobra and the Mongoose

A little over a week ago, I went with the fellas in Hello Monster to see Live 105's Local Band Showcase and Battle of the Bands. The battle had something slightly more than your average "handshake and maybe some cash" at stake: the winner of the battle wins the opening spot for Live 105's Not So Silent Night, which is their big Winter concert at the Oakland Arena. The winning band gets to open for Muse, AFI, Vampire Weekend, and a few other heavy hitters.

So why the title? I was trying to come up with the classic conflict, and it seemed fitting, but the comparison I'm making is the ancient struggle that I witnessed that night at the show: the struggle between a band and a sound guy. See, it's an odd symbiotic relationship, and there is a reason that most of the major bands you see much of anywhere all bring their own sound guys with them once they can afford to. Even in my limited experience, unfortunately there tends to be an unspoken rule that bands have to pretty much bend over and take it if the sound guy at the club is being a dick. It's how it goes: it's his club and his gear as far as he (or she, of course) is concerned. Many of them are great; a lot of sound guys I've worked with have been both wonderful people and talented at their job. But when they screw you.... boy do they screw you.

So here's the long and the short of it: the band that was pretty much the front runner as far as I'm aware hit the stage with their work cut out for them. Another band from earlier in the night absolutely blew the place up and had the entire crowd eating out of the palms of their hands. As soon as they hit the stage, something was clearly off. At first I thought it was a matter of my ears - it just seemed like the vocals were off key and the mix in the house just wasn't right.

Then between songs, the lead singer/guitarist asks for more vocals in his monitors. They play another song, he asks for more vocals in his monitors again, and it is distinctly heard that the sound guy tells him that he has to turn his guitar down before he can get anything else in the monitors. This request is ignored. See, this is the dance between bands and sound guys. Guitarists especially (I am speaking as one here) know for a fact that there are "sweet spots" in amplifiers when they are pushed to a certain volume. Sound guys want a much quieter signal, usually, so they can have more control over the volume from their soundboard.

And so it goes.

So a song or two later, the sound guy comes onstage to adjust the bass drum microphone mid-song. It's not uncommon, but it wasn't so glaring that the adjustment couldn't be made between songs. So, the singer from the band makes like he's kicking the sound guy the whole time he's on stage. I personally believe he made contact at least once, but that's still open to debate. So they play, they announce two more songs. They play another song, they announce one more song. They start said song.

Something is wrong.

Something is very wrong: the guitar is about a fifth as loud as it was. Then it hits me: they got yanked. The band tries to end gracefully, which is hard to do when your lead singer is trying to sing into a microphone that isnt' making any sound. So they wrap it up, they throw down their instruments, complete with the guitar leaning up against the amp so it feeds back, the singer flips off the sound guy and storms off stage.

As they are making their way off stage, the sound guy can clearly be heard saying through the monitors "You're done. Get the fuck off the stage."

Now let me elaborate: there was apparently existing beef going all the way back to sound check. Sound guy was a dick to the drummer, and some words were apparently exchanged. Still, to his credit, the band did have to adhere to a time limit as per the schedule, and they may well have gone over. I don't know for sure. I don't know if anyone does. But either way, by being completely punk rock about it, the singer won his band the admiration of a LOT of people there that night. But then again, his band just sounded off for like half an hour plus.

So who wins? Honestly, nobody. Except the band, that is, who was announced the winner of the battle the following morning.

My Dreams in a Nutshell

This is an instant messenger between myself and a much-revered coworker. I feel it captures my interests as well as personal tastes rather well.

if anybody on the planet would appreciate this link more than you, I would probably pay a tidy cash reward

http://www.youtube.com/user/AlieandGeorgia

two cute girls

who dress up kinda like 50s housewives

and make bizarre cocktails

that usually involve meat

I want to swoop up on the two of them, steal them off to Utah, and have a good old fashioned polygamist wedding and live in alcoholic meat bliss

Though I will admit, I find it somewhat surprising how frequently polygamy factors into my life, you may recall, I recounted my desire to do a similar thing with Au Revoir Simone not too long ago.

Naturally, in a perfect world, I could join my musical brides with my alcoholic meat brides into one giant super mega-fantasy life.

The Censorship Thing

So a co-worker of mine sent me a link to this article about two weeks ago, and it raises the ever-important question about censorship. See, in lit programs the whole banned books and all that jazz comes up on a moderately regular basis. From my years of teaching and just riding the bus and all the time I spend around young-ish kids, I remain bitter and cynical, which makes me wildly liberal on the censorship thing when it comes to kids. I tend to live by the creed that if kids are reading, we are making epic strides, because they could just as easily be doing any of a million illegal or immoral things, rather than reading a book. Plus, there isn't anything in a book that they can't find on the ol' internet.

First I'll give you a chance to read or skim. Go ahead. I'll wait...

http://www.kentucky.com/latest_news/story/1011029.html?a

There. Ready? Okay, great.

Here's what I think is at the heart of these issues: the age and technology gap. That, and the whole zealotry thing of individuals who think if they don't protect children from the evils of the world. You know, kind of like what parents should theoretically do in the real world. I don't really want to get into dwelling on the article too closely. It's a deep and convoluted issue, and I don't think I could really do my opinion justice here and now. I will just say that there is one line in this article that sums up these ladies and their crazy:

People prayed over me while I was reading it because I did not want those images in my head.

I'm not saying it's strictly a religious thing. I would never go so far as to say that most religious folks would act like these ladies, but man, this is an award-winning comic book, not Penthouse Forum. Heaven help them if they happened across Watchmen or something like that. I guess they could at least find comfort in Rorschach's morality.

Technically it's Not Cheating

Some of you might gripe that I am just re-posting something from somewhere else, but seeing as how I personally wrote this blog last night, I think it's perfectly legit for me to just hit you with a link. Feel free to comment here, but you just have to read it over at Myspace (no account needed). Yes, I could have cut and paste, but come on now, will one click really kill you?

Hello Monster: What Exactly Happened at Kimo's

Enjoy!

Caught in a Landslide...

Happened across this little bit of wonderful via Twitter this morning, and it just makes you feel amazing. Maybe it's just me, but I could watch this video all day long and not get tired of it, so I felt like it would be prudent to share it with all you wonderful folks.

Back on Track

I know I know, it's been a while again, yet I haven't really been keeping up too well all year really. I was just looking at the totals for this year, and jeez, I have been quiet as all hell. I mean, granted, it's better to remain quiet if you don't have much to say, and yes the working world has added a wee bit more monotony than I tend to like, but still, that's a little crazy. I mean, I wrote three times the blogs in 2008 than I have thus far in 2009.

So I'm hoping to find my way back to regular blogging. Tonight feels like a good night to catch up. I've been catching up gradually on the TV shows I regularly watch. For being one of those people who is kind of a jerk about the whole "I don't really watch TV" and "I don't have cable" thing, I am a huge fan of "Heroes" and "Glee". Yep, that's right, kids- captain negative pants, the guy who has something critical to say about damn near everything, happens to have a major weak spot when it comes to a TV show chronicling the singing and dancing escapades of a group of lovable high school outcasts. I mean look at the blissful dazed expression on that little monitor fella in the middle of the picture above, that's about how I feel when I watch Glee. It's downright silly, folks, it really is.

In other news, work has been pretty hectic, I'm just a tad under the weather, and part of me fears that has been the result of me doing everything all the time. I feel like I've been running around like a madman for the past few weeks, so from time to time it's nice to be able to sit back like this, and enjoy the finer things in life, like the occasional episode of TV on Hulu.

Geez, this shaped up to be kind of a schmaltzy "what I'm thankful for" post a few days in advance. Sorry - I will probably be back to my traditional crabby, cranky, bah-humbug self in no time.

Wordless Wednesday, Attempt #1

So I'm trying to do some of these themed, weekly blog entries. I've seen a handful of bloggers who have done this whole "Wordless Wednesday" thing where they list photos and whatnot. I'll start it off with a bang. This picture makes me laugh every time I see it. Hope it does the same for you.

Damn Right.

This is me, forty years from now.

http://twitter.com/shitmydadsays/statuses/5772660192

The Fading Traces of a Handstamp

So, as you may have noticed, I haven't really been writing a hell of a lot lately. There are a number of reasons for this, the main one of which is the simple fact that I am essentially never home. I pop in and out from time to time between band practices and all the other social obligations, but that's really about it. Of these varied "social obligations", the main one over the past few weeks has been going to shows. Certainly I'm not complaining, there's little in the world I'd rather be doing, especially on some random weeknight. So you know I'm not exaggerating, let me break it down for you:

Sunday November 1st - Built to Spill at the Fillmore
Monday, November 2nd - The Airborne Toxic Event at the Fillmore
Saturday, November 7th - Los Dryheavers and Get Dead at Annie's Social Club
Monday, November 9th - The Pixies at The Fox Theater
Thursday, November 12th - Headlights at Cafe Du Nord

Five shows in eleven days. It's been a wild ride. Toss in about five band practices in there, plus my regular full-time work schedule. But it makes me stop to think: what is it about seeing live music that gets me going so much. I mean, it's time, and I don't want to think about how much I've spent in that time span between tickets and drinks. But still, seeing good shows (and I can say that pretty much all of those were excellent shows in their own right) does two things to me: it makes me want to go out and see more good shows, and it makes me want to play more shows myself.

There's also just something about going out, seeing people do their thing onstage and having a great time, there's a certain amount of pride I feel in walking into work the next day, the remnants of a handstamp fading off my hand or wrist, knowing I probably had a better and more fun night than most of the people I walk past. Still, I'm kind of looking forward to a week or two that I don't have any shows on the calendar to go to. It might actually give me a little chance to take some of that inspiration of seeing all these bands and write some music again.

Come on barbie.

I've noticed a trend here and there from time to time, and even witnessed it firsthand the other day, and it was terrible. It's the bald-head-with sideburns look. Shaquille O'Neal did it for a while and it didn't quite work, I've seen a few other celebs try it and it's been worse. Naturally, as the title of this posting might indicate, the most famous violator of this look was that dude from the band Aqua, but his were even worse, as it was an over-the ear band of hair that connected into a semi-sideburn that was just chock full of douchiness. A more recent violator is Tim Nordwind of the band Ok Go. Paired with the fact that he always tends to be a bit more flamboyant in his clothing choices than the rest of his bandmates, he is further proof still of why you never want to be that guy with the bald head and the sideburns. Just let it go, man. Just let it go. I mean look at him, he looks like Powder (or Michael Stipe) with giant caterpillars crawling past his ears.


The other violator that is similar, which also seems to be making a comeback is the shaved head/full beard combo. Again, just because you can't grow hair on your head somewhere doesn't mean that you should try to compensate by growing it elsewhere. Imagine how bad that could get - some dude has a completely shaved head, yet compensates for it by growing an epic patch of back hair to make up for it. No facial hair but a massive carpet of chest hair peeking out from over his collar. (Tubes, I'm looking in your direction) I won't even go into the hair in "other parts" that might be grown to compensate, because that's gross.

There's only one person who can pull off the beard and bald look, and that's Kimbo Slice. I may or may not actually think that, but look at the guy. I'm really quite sure he could tear me from limb to limb, so in the sake of preserving my life, I will say "lookin' good there, big guy."

Some Rainy Weather Free Verse

From my co-worker:

Fuck
Left
Sunroof
A crack
Shit!
Bill
Theres
A puddle
Its a leak
Not the window
Fuck


Hang tight, PT.

Button it Up

Yes. I know I haven't written in over a week. I'm lame and terrible and am breaking the cardinal rule of blogging, that whole thing about how if you don't write frequently enough people will stop paying attention and reading and all that. Then again, that might be why my technorati rank is 1,603,173. Oh well.

So, a while back, I bought some new jeans. I heard that Gap was doing that big ol' campaign about their new jeans, and when they released them, they had all sorts of kick ass sales. I decided to take advantage (due in part to the fact that my jeans are getting sorrier by the week) and I finally got around to wearing one of the new pairs recently. I like the look, I like the style, and all that jazz. I feel like it was money well spent and all those other frugal platitudes.

But here's the thing. The damn jeans have a button fly.

I don't know who invented the button fly. Secretly I blame the Amish. But then again, I totally can. This is the internet. Lord knows the amish aren't online. I don't even know if they can, in accordance with their culture, read things that have been printed off the internet. Interesting question. If you have the answer, let me know.

But anyways, back to the fly. Button flies are awful. While they're buttoned, it's not all that bad. But gawddamn, god forbid I really have to pee. It's so awkward and difficult. Needlessly so. I swear, it's like having a corset for your junk - you're all bound in there and it takes a degree of skill, dexterity, and coordination in order to get out of there. I just don't get it. Well, I guess the bright side is that, after all that ordeal, I don't have to worry about walking out of the bathroom with my fly down. Well, I guess there was that time the other night where I skipped a button. That was... an interesting sensation.

All Doors Are Closing

I need not remind you all I'm not a morning person. If you ever, ever forget that fact, just call me before ten in the morning. I hate to sound redundant, but it's an important reminder from time to time, and it is a rather necessary preface to this little tale.

This morning I caught the bus at pretty much the same time as I always do. I tend to be pretty much within the same range all the time. Today's bus was a tad more crowded than usual, and I wound up with a pack of grade school girls standing across from me. This was fine. But to give you an idea of just how close they were to me; one of them leaned back and went headfirst into my book, which was already leaning up by my chest.

This invasion of personal space continued for much of the ride from various people at various angles, but I can absolutely accept that as a necessary evil of public transportation. These things happen. That is not my gripe. Just, at the end of the morning's ride, I was already in a somewhat aggravated, somewhat fragile mental state. So getting off the bus was a bit of an adventure, and I'll tell you why:

Because all the damn morons who clog the bus stops of my fair city can't understand the simple concept of allowing people to exit a bus before putting their head down and trying to force their way into the doorway as if the bus will drive away and never come back.

Today, at my stop, I had to trip and stumble my way to the door, contorting myself like an Eastern European acrobat so as not to brain the people sitting down or to dry hump the poor overweight septuagenarian who no one was willing to give up a seat for. I see daylight, make my move, just happy to keep my shoes on my feet, and the next thing I know I'm almost taken out by the kneecaps by two women with jogging strollers who are trying to press their way onto my streetcar. They seemed to be hoping that, despite the fact that my large frame scarcely escaped with all limbs intact and no bodily harm inflicted on my person or that of those around me, that they might fool the keepers of the doors into somehow creating space for them so that they may magically board and ride comfortably.

This, dear readers, is not how I want to start a Wednesday. I try to be mindful of those around me, and I don't like to play the role of linebacker around my unsuspecting fellow commuters, least of all those with small children in tow, but I'll be damned if I wasn't close today. So the next time you go to board a bus, give those exiting ample time to get out of the bus (and out of your way - funny how those things coincide). It's rule number one of riding MUNI. Literally.

Au Revoir Simone

So, you kids should hopefully be aware of the band Au Revoir Simone. True, you have to be somewhat in the know when it comes to modern indie music, but damn are they wonderful. It's three drop-dead gorgeous hipster girls from Brooklyn playing indie synth pop exactly how it should be played. While all their music is just gangbusters, there is one song in particular that especially sets my heart aflutter, and they just released a video for it:



Now, since my dear sweet Zooey D is married away to Mr. Death Cab, these ladies are now the cutest thing since bite-sized sliced bread.

So here's my plan: I own a MicroKorg, which is a pretty respectable keyboard in it's own right. I'm thinking that sooner or later I'm going to book a flight to Brooklyn, find these lovely ladies' rehearsal space, keyboard in tow. In due time, I'll convince them that what they really need is a fourth member. A male member. From San Francisco. (hurr hurr hurr, I said "member".... twice!)

Then, after a little time of learning all their songs, making myself a productive band member and trusted friend, we book a tour. Said tour will inevitably swing through Utah. Once we're in Utah, BAM! I marry all three of them on one fell swoop.

Then we start a family band and live happily ever after in music and looooove. And maybe kittens. Those girls have gotta love kittens.

So Bill...

... what have you been doing all this time since you last raved about chili cheese tots?

I suppose the best answer would be "a little bit of everything." Things have been kicking in the music world, with Hello Monster putting the finishing touches on our still-yet-to-be-named EP. The Lava Rats are practicing regularly-ish again, and the Reducing Agents still rock out when time allows. I've been going to a lot of shows, hanging out with the fellas (successfully) and chasing the ladies (unsuccessfully). And work work work. Oh, and I've been building bookcases
for Nate.

But tonight I'm back in my element: somewhat sleep deprived and sipping a cup of coffee at the cafe. And dammit does that feel good.

So as I tend to do when I have issues coming up with what to write about, I went back to the archives and looked for inspiration, and today I noticed, no surprise at all, just how much this blog reflects what my main focus in life is: while I was writing the thesis, I wrote a ton of posts about books and literary theory and all that jazz. When I was unemployed, I wrote mostly about the interesting things happening in the world around me, and all throughout I've had music stuff interspersed pretty often.

So what have my posts been about for the last little while? Pretty much nothing. And that's when I realize I'm in a bit of a rut. Much as I feared, free time has not treated me well. I tend to be the type of person who needs a fire lit under their ass, and my buns are barely warm at the moment. So I'm hoping to get something new going, I don't know what. I have a few ideas scattered about, so I'm hoping that once I figure out where my energies might go, it will kickstart a little bit of creative life again, and I will be that much more engaging here on the blog. So with that bit of a downer, I'm calling it a night because I don't really know when I'll be able to get some sleep in the next week or so. Which makes pursuing new projects harder still. Humbug.

Tots, Part II

A quick one before I succumb to exhaustion. You may recall, and I'm reaching way back into the vaults for this one, but I wrote a year and a half ago about cheezy tots. Unfortunately, up to this point I have still not ventured into the flavor country known as cheezy tots. Alas, I tend to not be around Burger King in the mornings, and I don't necessarily think that will be changing any time soon.

However, today I happened upon another fast food place I pretty much will never go to again: Sonic. (before going on, I will say that I'd love to go to Sonic a lot more often. However, considering that the closest location is about sixty miles from my house, I don't have a lot of chances to make it out there) At said Sonic, I discovered one of the most wonderful taste sensations from the advent of those golden-brown crispy goodness known as tots. For those of you who know Sonic, you might know where I'm going with this one. For those of you who don't know Sonic, I present you...

Chili-Cheese Tots. That's right kids, cheezy tots are soooo 2008. In the past year, scientists the world over discovered that mere cheese was not enough for tots. No no, good friends. They realized with the addition of chili to said cheese and tots, that the flavortastic wonderment was increased tenfold. Now we can chili-fy our hunger zones in new and fantastic ways for under five bucks.

So, while I still would like to try the King's attempt at injecting the pillowy potato treats I love so dear with cheese, I thumb my nose at them for not having realized the utopia of flavor that is gained by adding chili to these delightful treats.

Thank you, flavor science of the future, for giving my taste buds a five minute siesta from the workaday world while providing me hundreds of empty calories that I can carry around just above my belt for weeks to come.

What's Wrong with This Picture?

I will be brief, as it is once again late, but man, this cracks me up.

I happened across this image in the course of my work day. The writer of the list is a nurse, writer, and blogger from the North Bay, and I'm sure she's a wonderful woman. I really appreciate what she does for women, and I even feel bad snickering over her, as I believe she does a a lot of good. But problem number one: she's a blatant hippie. Like, really blatant. Also, she put on her to do list, which she shared publicly on both her blog and her twitter account, to have sex with her husband. I mean, tally ho -- good on her for rockin' the Casbah still after all these years -- but to put it in a to do list?

At least it out-ranks catching up on Twitter.


(plus, did she miss my post yesterday about how once you say something publicly on the internet, the universe conspires against you? How can she jeopardize her sweet nooky by telling the aether that she's gettin' some tonight?)

Minor Fail

Well, I made a tactical error in writing publicly that I would be able to achieve epic amounts of blogging this evening. I forgot one of the cardinal rules of the internet: never claim you're going to get something done, because once you hit "publish", the universe will conspire to keep you from achieving anything you have said you would.

Kind of like when I said tomorrow I was going to NOT become a millionaire....

So I'd cooked up this plan to write up a ton of blogs and pre-date them so that they'd publish throughout the week, since I know I won't have time to write much this week. Again. Then I came home, and the passenger door of my car was in pieces. So, since I cannot hardly write to save my life when in my humble abode, I got this blog done and that's it. Because I'm horrible and unproductive. But on the bright side, my passenger window now rolls both up and down. First time in... oh, a year and a half. Maybe more.

There is one thing I wanted to discuss tonight that I suppose ties in somewhat to my blog inabilities of the evening. See, no matter how much I want to or how much I may plan, I seem to lack the general ability to get to sleep at a time most people would deem "normal." See, I am a night person. You know that. You see when I usually write these blogs. Myself and night time go together like peas and carrots. But this is the thing: I've kind of been exhausted for a good two weeks or so. Tonight was one of those rare nights where I have not spent the night out somewhere. I did not have band practice. I didn't need to meet anyone for drinks (and yes, I do need that from time to time). I didn't have tickets to a show...

But guess what? It's currently 12:55 in the flippin' morning, and I am not asleep. I am horrible at this. Could I have written this anywhere in the five and a half hours since I finished dinner? Absolutely. Did I? No. Because apparently I have some dire need to make each morning at least as miserable as the morning before if not moreso. I know I wrote that blog about a month ago about that whole "getting up in the morning and being well rested" thing, and I believe that's probably the last time I woke up well-rested and chipper when waking up to an alarm.

Now if you'll excuse me, I think I'm going to go try to make up for my never sleeping. By sleeping. I hear it's the bee's knees.

Ante Up!

Happy Monday!

Look forward to much blogeration tonight.

So Bill, How Did You Spend Your Weekend?

Well, thanks for asking. I spent the entire weekend at PopSmear studios in San Rafael, hanging out with the band, Scott, our fearless producer, his engineer Joel (from an amazing band called Scene of Action), and Scott's dog Cooper. And I tell you what, dear readers, recording is some exhausting stuff. You all know me to some degree, and you all know that I'm not one of those people who sleeps, really. Yeah, I sneak in a day here and there to really put head to pillow, but generally speaking, I trend to not require as much sleep as the average bear. But man, I tell you what, recording is some exhausting stuff. It's not mentally taxing, it's not even specifically physically taxing, there's just some combo of having to be listening critically, being ready to play at any second, and drinking that really takes it out of you.

So now, after three full days in the studio, we have the vast majority of four songs recorded (sans vocal harmony, but that's about it, and everything else sounds flippin' fantastic). And now that I'm home for the night, I'm dog tired. Things sound great, I got to rock the CD in my car all the way home, and all I can do is think about hopping in the shower and sleeping like the dead.

Of course, as happens in the life of Bill, I happen to have plans every night of the week. I know they say no rest for the wicked, which makes me wonder what cosmic being I pissed off in order to wind up like this. You'd think I slept Vishnu's sister or got drunk and punched out God's cousin. Oh well. Thus is life.

Nerd Transport, Part 2: The Segway

Sorry for the delay - I was out of town all weekend, and haven't hardly been in front of the computer since Thursday.

But, walking to work this morning, not only did I walk behind the tool that fell off his scooter some days ago, another block closer to my office, I saw coming towards me such a singular abomination, I couldn't get the camera in my iPhone ready in time to take a picture. Coming towards me at about 5 mph was a Segway.

Yeah, I see them around, I know about all the tour groups that use Segways as easy transportation, and I think it's wonderful. Then again, they also use those silly little electric yellow three-wheeler thingies, but I don't see private citizens running out to buy one of those.

So once again you have it: nerd status symbol, lazy transportation, and yet another means of transport that I wouldn't be caught dead on. See a few weeks back, I had a discussion with a friend about Segways. He said they were compelling, and that it seemed interesting, and I agree wholeheartedly. However, the problem is, if I actually got on one of those things except for on an organized tour, I might have to punch myself in the face.

Yet another piece in the puzzle of my Segway aversion: this past year in the Jeopardy Teen Tournament, there was a chubby lad of about seventeen whom most of us would call a dork. Granted, the mere fact that he was on the Jeopardy teen tournament probably didn't bode well for him. Still, he had a rather unfortunate bowl cut, glasses, and was wearing a blazer that looked like it needed a crest on it. So in the regular "meet the players" part of the program, Alex Trebek talked to him about his plans for college and the fact that still at almost eighteen, the gent didn't have a driver's license. He informed ol' Trebek that he never really planned to get a license either. And when asked about going around campus, Alex asked if, like most people, he was planning on getting a bike.

Of course, he replied that he had one plan: to use the money that he might use on a car to purchase a Segway. Thanks kid, for confirming every single stereotype about doughy nerds and their choice of transport. No bike, no car. Just him leaning forward ever so slightly to get wherever the world needs him to be. Plus, we know all too well, there is only one person on this whole planet who can make a Segway look cool...

Confession

I'm going to come out and say it: I don't like camping.

I suppose even that is a bit rash. See, it's not that I don't like camping, it's just that even the idea of camping has absolutely no appeal to me whatsoever. I know it's wonderful to get away, to find places with no cell reception or anything and just "be one with nature" and all that. But not for this guy. No way. Not me.

I really quite like getting outdoors, even out of the city. I like a good hike from time to time, I really enjoy both the fresh air that is to be had out amongst the wonderful trees, and there is hardly a single sight I enjoy than a pitch black night with a sky full of stars. No noise pollution, no air pollution, just a clear night sky through the treetops. But here's the kicker about all that: I like to take all that in, and then go have a nice snooze somewhere inside. On a bed. As much as I tend to enjoy relieving myself in public (I mean, come on, who doesn't?), I prefer having that be a second option behind indoor micturition. It's the simple difference between choice and necessity.

The other big lure everyone talks about other than sleeping under the stars and getting away and all that is the whole "ohh, every night you can have a camp fire to sit around." Well, I find fores to be far more enjoyable when either on the beach or when they are across from a couch with a nice young woman on it. Again, proximity to a bed is a factor in this one, but you know what I mean - wink wink. Then again, no cozy fire anywhere has done me much good in general lately.

So for all the wonders of relaxation, starlit nights, and communing with nature, I think I'd do much better with a flushing toilet and a bed.

Stability: Or, The Nerd Scooter

I work in a part of town that panders to nerds. It's commonly called "media gulch" in tech circles, and there are times when I'm walking around that I don't know if I am more inspired by the hipsters from the Academy of Art, or mildly repulsed by the nerds who talk about processor speeds and latency with the fervor that most people reserve only for discussing carnal relations.

So it is with this kind of "slightly over all the nerds I encounter every day" mentality that I set out of the office at the end of the day yesterday. I've been in a wee bit of a funk as of late, and therefore I have not been the most empathic person in all of the SOMA district in the past week or two. One thing that I have been consistently rolling my eyes at for the entire duration of my past year's employ at my company has been all the grown men (because, let's be honest, it's always the men) going around on some nerdy "professional" version of a Razor Scooter.

You all remember the Razor scooter, right? They kind of went out when Hansel rode one to the VH1 fashion awards back in 2001 when he upset Derek Zoolander for Best Male Model. You remember them - the scourge of college campuses not because of the sheer number of people riding the, but for the number of people who fell all over the place in an attempt to ride them. Well, thing is, for some tech "professionals" they never went out of style - they just got a little bit bigger, and for some, they got motorized.

Now it's these motorized ones that bother the living hell out of me. They're noisy, the people that "ride" them tend to be asshats, and they leave a nasty trail of exhaust. So despite my funk, I had a little glimmer of sunshine on my walk to the bus yesterday. One of the office buildings I walk past every morning and evening has a long winding walkway (in accordance with the ADA), which I've seen a handful of hotdogs ride their bike up. So as I'm walking towards the bus, awash in the sounds of Explosions in the Sky, I notice a dork with a motorized scooter exiting the building. Rather than being rational, and waiting to crank up the old motorized scooter, he apparently decided that he just needed to risk the hairpin turns of the handicap walkway. So in the blink of an eye he cranks his motor, heads down the ramp, and thwap he goes ass over handlebars, over the railing on the walkway, and into the bushes.

For the little part of me that couldn't help but stifle that "man, I hope he's okay" reaction, there was a huge part of me that smirked and thought "and this could have all been avoided had he simply not been a tool and tried to take his scooter down a wheelchair ramp.

But before you curse me and the fact that I'm a heartless bastard, rest assured - he got up, walked his scooter down the remainder of the walkway (as he should have in the first place) and rode off around the corner.

The "We" Thing

I spend a decent amount of the week (and really a decent amount of my life these days) around a number of married friends and coworkers. I am a big fan of all of them, and all of their respective spouses (at least those I've met, and hell, even those I haven't met). There's one thing, however, that does tend to grind my gears a little bit.

Yes, I know this comes from my bitter single self. It comes from having oh... six years or so of fairly contiguous singularity. But I tell you what, it still kind of makes me a little grumpy from time to time when friends only in the "we". And no, I don't mean the royal "we."

For instance, when I ask a friend what he (because let's be real, it's a he 95% of the time) did the past weekend or what he's up to that night, I am asking him. I know that for most married couples (at least I'd certainly hope so) their evening and weekend plans often involve one another, but come on. Once you light that unity candle, there's a reason you don't blow out your individual candle. To hear statements like "we don't get out as much as we used to" or "I have to see what we're up to this weekend" it is really just a way of making it seem more passive that you have to check with the wife before doing things. I get that. I understand that. Hell, I support that. By all means, please communicate with your loved one. Just don't try to pass it off as something it isn't - just say "I have to check with the wife" or whatever it is. And when I ask how you are doing, I am asking how you are doing. Allow me that and give me a straight answer; chances are, right after I ask that, I'll ask how the wife is doing. (or the husband, or the life partner - I love 'em all)

Yes, I realize in the sick twisted world that is English Grammar, the plural of two people is also "you". If anybody knows that, it's me. But do you really think your single buddy would really be asking about the coupled activities that filled the days of you two people sharing in matrimony?

Again, I know that I just sound like bitter single guy, but I really don't think I am (at least not in this particular instance). I congratulate and commend all of you wonderful married readers for your years of wedded bliss, and I wish you many more, and in this case, I do mean you as in you two, whomever "you two" may be. But I just want to put the word out there as a public service announcement for all you wonderful married folk, be mindful of your "we" since there are some people who have been an "I" for entirely too long.

It Finally Makes Sense to Me

Two facts you may have already gleaned from me:






1) I am a night owl, and therefore quite the "not a morning person"

2) I have been under the weather recently, and therefore I have been getting a lot more sleep lately.

Suddenly, everything makes a hell of a lot more sense. See, last night I was feeling kind of like garbage, so I hit the ol' hay around nine o'clock - a feat I have not accomplished since the ripe age of... I don't even remember when. I still woke up at the usual time, around 7:15, yet something was off. I wasn't really cranky. I didn't immediately feel a distaste for anyone I laid eyes on. My stomach was completely settled, my head was clear as a bell, and I felt a bit of a devil-may-care attitude as I woke up.

Suddenly, I realized: this is what it's like for those well-rested morning people. See, all those mornings that I was tired and frustrated, those smiling masses were waking up from their eight or ten hours of sleep, ready to tackle yet another day as the sun rises.

So what's my solution? Now that I'm feeling better, I am staying up until the wee hours of the morning writing a blog about the whole "wow I got sleep one night and felt like a normal human in the morning" thing. Perhaps old blue eyes put it best (not that this applies to me tonight or at all this week): "I feel sorry for people who don't drink. When they wake up in the morning, that's as good as they're going to feel all day."

Amen, Frank.

Just So You Know

I'm sick. Not in that fun, exciting "sick in the head" kind of way, either. Just the whole "I have a cold and should never be less than five feet from a box of tissues kind of what. Which is really friggin' boring. As a result, the vast majority of my life has been devoted to either being at work and blowing my nose, being at home and blowing my nose, riding the bus and trying not to blow my nose, and sleeping.

So unless you're up for a long diatribe about how much I dislike my mucous glands, I will just pack it in.

Thanks.

How I've Missed You...

So it turns out everything was all about coffee. I went back to the coffee shop in the first time in quite some time, and I think that a portion of my general ennui was stemming from my lack of late-night caffeination.

All of a sudden I feel alive again for the most part. I'm running into people on the street everywhere I go (a very classic Bill thing to have happen) and again, to the comfort of many people, the people I've run into recently have not been calling me a legend.

Also, tonight I finally finished reading Gravity's Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon. It's one of those books that is a "challenging read" -- it's 760 pages long, has (according to Wikipedia) over 400 characters, and isn't really about much of anything. It's artfully written, it's clearly a great literary accomplishment, but it's not what a vast majority of us (even folks with a background like mine) would consider pleasure reading. I will say this much: it's hands-down more enjoyable and engaging than I found Finnegan's Wake.

But I can't help but ask: why do I read these books? Yes, Gravity's Rainbow won the Pulitzer, and it was included in Time Magazine's All-Time 100 Greatest Novels, which oddly only includes English language novels from 1923-2005. But still, it bears the question, is it a status thing? (I hope not) Is it a mental challenge thing? (getting warmer) Really, I think it's just boiled down to the fact that at this point in my life, I feel like there are certain books that I should have read. And it's not just part of that BBC list or anything like that.

Am I alone here? Do you all have stuff like that? Movies? Books? Albums? Anything like that? I guess it's like peoples' desires to see all the Major League ball parks or to visit certain cities before they die or something like that. Now back to some more accessible, fun, light reading. Then Infinite Jest. THAT will be an experience...

Well Then

I have to just up and say it: I've never been quite to uninspired in my life. At least not in recent memory.

My days consist of the same wake-bus-work-bus-band practice-sleep schedule day in and day out. I haven't been to the coffee shop in probably close to two months, I'm tired more and more, and I just feel like I've fallen into a sedentary pattern that is really wearing on me. Hell, I almost talked about the weather again in this blog.

And on that note, I bid you a fond good day.

Oh Dear

Sorry folks, been sitting here trying to come up with something to write for damn near an hour.
Hopefully I'll have something for you tomorrow.

Abomination

I emailed this to a handful of my folks, but I had to post it here if you were overlooked in my email.

This is a screamo cover of The Postal Service's "Such Great Heights". I applaud these silly lads for their ability to jump at the same time, and their well-coordinated side-stance headbanging. I do not, however, applaud their ability to NOT butcher an otherwise wonderful song.



Best part? They're a Christian metal band.

Read more here.

Legend?

Whenever I toss out the word "legend" I can't help but think about "The Legend of Boggs" but unfortunately, that's not what tonight's blog is about. Rather, narcissistically enough, it's about me. See, last night I was at an old stomping ground after hours (Seniore's Pizza, for you in the SF cognoscenti) and as often happens to be the case when in an old stomping ground, I ran into some guys who I went to high school with.

The two young gents were both about two years younger than me. I know it's commonplace to look up to the older guys when you're in school and all that, but apparently this has somehow hung on with a few of the fellas. See, as I was walking out of the pizza place last night, the two fellas I know started calling after me, saying that I was "A San Francisco Legend", as if all the people around should know my name and who I am.

A similar thing happened a few weeks ago with another friend from high school who is a few years younger than myself. He introduced me as "the legendary" Bill Bergstrom. So here's my thing: I don't consider myself to be the slightest bit legendary. I don't think I'm really exceptional, and while I'm not looking for a pat on the back or anything like that, I just wonder what the heck happened. I know I had high school figured out, I know that I was kind of a big deal back in the day, but I don't know what happened in the meantime. I don't think any of my current compatriots would call me legendary, though I certainly am held in high regard. Then again, I was also much smoother with the ladies. Guess maybe it just goes hand in hand.

Guess I have to change my description.

Only in San Francisco

Part of my job these days is to email users of our website asking them if they would be willing to help out by talking a bit about our site and their experience using it for some TV and radio spots and whatnot. Earlier this week I was doing just that, and I emailed a user, who for anonymity's sake we'll call Anita. Anita had an email address along the lines of "Anita_hottie", which was compelling.

Anita was one of the first of our users to respond to the batch of emails, and said something to the effect of "I'd be honored to help you out, I love using your site. I'm just not sure that I'd be the right person to go on TV. But I guess we'll have to meet in person for you to see what I mean. Much love, Anita" or something like that.

Naturally, being the curious type, I couldn't help but do a little interweb-sleuthing. What did I discover?

Anita is a man.

Anita is a man who cross-dresses.

Anita is a man who cross-dresses like a schoolgirl.

Anita is a man who cross-dresses like a schoolgirl on a "sissy porn" website.

So yes, there we have it. Welcome to the constant oddness that is my life. I am trying to find some friendly and wholesome housewife type to say how happy they are with our site. What did I end up with? A man who dresses up like a schoolgirl and gets spanked on the internet. I love my life.

This is why I'm Hot

We all know my feelings about talking about the weather, but goddammit, it's too damn hot these days, and daylight savings time is really getting to me. I think it's my generally nocturnal nature, paired with my rearing in the fog belt of San Francisco, but the fact that it's usually daylight when I wake up in the morning, and remains light out until some time in the neighborhood of eight thirty or nine in the evening is throwing me way off.

See, I'm not going to say "I like the nightlife, I like to boogie" (even if it is true), but I will say this: I find to an increasing degree that I really need a certain number of waking hours after sundown for my well being and sanity. It sounds funny, but I really find that I feel far more awake and alive in the nighttime hours, I feel like much of my waking time with the sun out is spent waiting for the sun to go away. Yes yes, I know, I spend most of my daylight hours at work, and the night is when I go out and get into trouble and all that, but to be honest, I'm the same way when I'm at home. Still, I find it increasingly difficult to not roll my eyes when the people at work get all up on their "ooohhh I'm so happy it's so nice and sunny out today" - it's just another too sunny day for me.

So I say, "Up yours, sun. Quit following me around. Just to get back at you, I just might go visit Sweden at the equinox so I can spend like 38 hours without having to see you. Jerk."

As a means of illustration, this picture below would be me, if I were an Italian plumber named Mario.

Delinquent as Ever

Well, I suppose it would be safe to say that all of last week represents a rousing failure in that "blog post every day" goal that I'd set for June. I suppose that's what happens when you pair family in from out of town with a general feeling of malaise and ennui.

I will say that in addition to a new tattoo and a fantastic piece of art that I got over the weekend, I did have a funny little tidbit to relate.

In the ever-fascinating world known as the internet, I happen across people from my past who I have all but put out of my mind. Naturally, many of those people who have not crossed my mind tend to be tossed in my direction via Facebook. I am constantly amazed at the random ability of this site to pick certain needles in haystacks and bring them to my attention. Tonight, for the first time in my membership of Facebook, I was recommended a seemingly random person, considering that we have no mutual friends or anything, just the fact that we "both went to SF State". You could say that about thirty or forty thousand people every few years, so tell me, Facebook, you wily dog, how in the world did you pick a girl I once dated and haven't spoken to in years? Yeah, you know the one - the random one who just literally stopped returning my calls and disappeared. How did you know, Facebook, that there was ever any connection between the two of us?

Well, maybe some other random girl from my past will start following me on twitter or something soon. Welcome to the oddness that is my life.

The Benefits of Being Slow

True story from earlier today:

I took what is pretty much my usual lunchtime trip to the coffee kiosk down by the office, and since this is part of my daily routine, the staffers know me by sight. Luckily for me, a handful of the coffee ladies are of the "cute indie girl" persuasion, so I also look forward to the chance to make with the nice-nice with a couple of wonderful young ladies while they make delicious, delicious coffee.

Now, before I continue, there's one aside that bears mention. As some of you may well know, I tend to be rather "punny" - I make jokes, oftentimes to myself, that tend to be met with resounding groans. Yes, even when I make said jokes to myself, I can't help but groan at them.

But back to the task at hand. Today I was at the kiosk, and the barista we affectionately refer to as Willow was working, so I was chatting with her a bit since I haven't been over to get coffee in the last two days. So we're chatting a little bit, and I'm as charming as I always am (though I reluctantly admit, I'm more charming in print) when she looks down (as I do) and notices that the milk she is steaming for my cappuchino has run over the side of the little pitcher she is steaming it in. She made some crack about how "that almost never happens to her" and I quip back something clever along the lines of "I have that affect on people." We complete the transaction, and I head on my merry way.

So as I am walking back towards the office, I think to myself "when that milk was puring over the side, I should have said 'my cap runneth over'... hurr hurr hurr...." Then I realized that from time to time, it is a very good thing that my mind is sometimes a step or two behind, since some of the shit that I come up with I would invariably end up saying out loud, and no one, and I mean no one needs that.

Scotty Iseri: Genius or Madman?

I have been singing the praises of Scotty Iseri to a number of my friends. If you haven't been among those people, I encourage you to laugh yourself silly while watching these videos. Start from the beginning, because it's worth it to epic proportions.

http://scottyblog.blip.tv/

Yes, this is another lame excuse for a blog post, but it's late and I'm weary.

No News is Good News

Sorry about the quiet recently, but "Bill the blogger" got pushed aside by "Reverend Bill" for a little bit, leaving me spending most of my time writing a sermon rather than writing blogs. I've also spent pretty much 95% of the weekend running around taking care of wedding stuff, which leaves little time for being surrounded by crazies. I suppose that speaks volumes to my friends Pete and Sara, because their friends who were at the wedding ain't got no crazy on my coworkers and my fellow commuters.

If nothing else, I was able to at least log an hour or so in a dive bar. I didn't make it into the Mission, and I didn't go to any of the regular haunts, but it was kind of like a fun field trip to a new bar in a part of town I never hang out in. It's like an interesting anthropological study to see what type of folks hang out in other dives around town.

I realize this has been a bit of a lame blog, but I'm trying to make it to sleep at a decent hour, and as I'll be off having all-you-can-eat pizza tomorrow, I need to conserve my energy.

Gas, Brake, Honk.

For all my complaints and gripes about MUNI and the number of times I have been subjected to a bunch of weirdos in my general vicinity, I still actually prefer it to commuting. Not only do I not have to just sit idly in my car as I inch along slowly towards my destination, I get to read, and best of all, I don't have to worry about taking my life in my hands every damn time I try to change lanes.

I was reminded of this fact this morning. See, I was walking towards work, which is almost directly across from an onramp for the Bay Bridge. I'm snapped out of my drowsy morning stupor by dueling car horns. As I look up, two very fine import cars are neck in neck coming up the street. Quickly, the issue is evident: the one in the onramp lane does NOT want to be there - they want to merge to the right and continue down the street. The second car is on the street and wants to merge left into the onramp lane. So essentially, they want to switch places. But here's the issue, gentle readers: neither of these cars wants to slow down to let the other one in. Quite the opposite, really. So how do they deal with this miscommunication/battle of wills?

By frantically honking at the other car while speeding way up. Because that makes sense.

Next thing I know, these two asshats are blowing down the street at about fifty miles per hour. The rest of the traffic is even hanging back because this can't end well. Finally, one of them slammed on the brakes and let the other merge. I didn't look because I didn't want to really witness the outcome, but I did hear the tires screeching to a halt.

So in the remaining half a block or so, I started thinking about it. Maybe there is a different code for people in cars and people on foot. I mean, naturally there is, because no pedestrian ever ran over a car and killed it, but you know what I mean. Then a sudden thought popped into my head.

My nightmare: horns for pedestrians.

And I'm not talking some little "beep beep" button or a bike horn. I'm talking about one of those gnarly pressurized air horns like boats have. Can you imagine that? Someone in front of you is walking slower and you can't get around, just reach in your bag or whatever, and honk the living fuck out of 'em. That will teach them to walk on your sidewalk! Someone brushes your shoulder as you pass them in the opposite direction "wauuuuuugh" and they will know just how awful they are. The possibilities are limitless, and if it ever happens in the real world, I would have to find some other means of going places than driving or walking, which might make things a little more... trying.

And I leave you with the words of the great sage Homer Simpson:
I pity those poor suckers on the freeway. Gas brake honk. Gas brake honk. Honk honk punch. Gas gas gas.

Unplug for a Little Bit

I know this will seem a tad strange coming from a guy with three laptops, but I have noticed more and more the insanity of people needing to be in front of their computers every damn minute of every day. Seems like almost every day I see more and more people on the bus working on their laptops with cellular wifi cards. I'm more than used to folks working in coffee shops, even bars from time to time. But let's face it folks, there's a bright and shiny world out there beyond the comforting glow of your monitor. It's not just the bus, it seems like everywhere I look, someone else is on a laptop somewhere. I see them when I walk around on my lunch break (granted, I work in the tech-laden neighborhood known as media gulch), I see them all over both airports and airplanes alike, but there's one place that I can't help but gawk: I have started seeing more bums with laptops.

Now here's the thing: I know it's not their fault. Even knowing that something is stolen, they're not exactly going to turn it down. I suppose I should be happy that the residents of my fair city aren't willing to buy clearly stolen goods. Still, I can't help but shake my head every time I see some dude pushing a cart or set up with a mess of sleeping bags in a doorway poking away at a laptop that's almost as nice as mine. Welcome to the 21st century. Next thing I know that crazy lady with all the cats will be asking me if I know about any good new apps for her iPhone that she can use for "whatever her that insane stammering, gesturing, and yelling was".

This isn't the guy I see around, but I'd be more than willing to lay a solid bet that this picture below was taken in San Francisco.

PDA Plague

I was doing so well, folks. I really was. But I tell you, today kind of pushed me over the edge. I don't know what it was -- I pretty much kept my daily routine as I always would. I took my regular buses, I worked my regular shift; the only thing out of the ordinary was that I went out to a show tonight. But dammit, I swear, I couldn't escape people making out all goddamn day.

On the bus in the morning there was one of those cute couples who commute together. Usually they're all fine, usually it's a little smooch as one gets off at their stop. Oh no, not today. Today there was a couple to the left of me who I swear were making out for a good five minutes. At 8:30 in the morning. I mean, I guess it's good that they both brushed their teeth in the a.m. and didn't have nasty morning breath, but dammit, do you have to do it in my line of sight? I'm just trying to read.

Then on the bus home, it was more of the same. Granted, there was a high school graduation letting out near where I catch the bus, but it went beyond that. I think I witnessed at least four couples making out at different times. That was augmented by the fact that at least two of those four couples involved either lap sitting or straddling (like the above picture, but on the bus. I feel bad for whoever got those seats next) which is just uncalled for in public.

So I put up with it for a little while, and I thought I was past it when I got to the show tonight. I waited in line to get into the venue, and I look behind me and what do my wondering eyes behold? A couple pushed up against the wall just fiercely making out. I get inside, I wait for the opening band to start. I look to my left: making out. I look to my right, a couple is all intertwined in each other. It was just a little bit more than this fella could bear.

So you wonderful folks, if you are lucky enough to have a special someone or even just an insignificant other to make out with when you so happen to choose, all I ask is have the decency to keep the public stuff more on the PG side, and save the hardcore face-sucking for more private quarters, where you are not around people with such a sensitive gag reflex. Thanks.

Jesus Loves Drum & Bass

I know it's a cheap excuse for a blog, folks, but alas it's late and I am completely bereft of ideas for the night. So with no further ado, I give you:

1) "Holy Ghost"

and

2) "Super Sunday"

These make me laugh uncontrollably. Have a great week.

Ughhhhh

Last night I was reminded of a lesson I need to get refreshed from time to time:

When your employed friends all say "I'm going home" and your unemployed friends all say "Let's go to another bar" for the love of all that's holy, go home.

Five hours of sleep and sheer post-bar exhaustion is no way to face a Friday.

That is all.

A Close Shave

If you know me or see me on a regular basis, you are probably well aware that the razor is no friend of mine. In fact I think I could probably count the times I've been full-on "clean shaven" in the past year on my fingers and not have it hinder my typing one bit. I generally keep my looks pretty clean, but I just don't really see the point of having that baby-bottom smooth face. I know it works for a lot of people, but especially when you are goateed like me, having a smooth neck is more of an afterthought than anything else.

Despite my personal feelings about facial smoothness, I was downright impressed the other day when a co-worker told me he was leaving the office on his lunch break to get what he affectionately referred to as a "real man shave". For fear of the fact that we were in San Francisco, and you generally are better off not inquiring into others' grooming habits, I did not ask him to elaborate. However, as is his style, he continued on. It turns out he was getting what I really believe is a real man shave -- he was going somewhere (a barbershop or tonsorial parlor I have to assume) to get a shave in the old-fashioned way: steaming hot towel, hot lather, and a straight razor. I suddenly hold this man in even higher regard than I did before.

See, it's not that I think it's so cool and kooky that he gets a shave like that from time to time, it's just that I find the whole "having someone shave you" be a very intimate experience. I haven't gotten professional shaves, but my barber has been known to do a little fine tuning on the edges and the neck with a straight razor, and the amount of trust I place in the man is through the roof. I mean, granted, I'm already putting a lot of trust in him to cut up my thick and luscious hair in the first place, but if he screws that up, I will just walk out of there kind of looking like a jackass. If he screws up a close shave, I might be walking out of there with a tourniquet. And that's the beauty of the "real man shave" - you are placing complete and total trust in someone who is an artisan in a lost art, and I know that had I the coin to pay for something like that on a somewhat regular basis, I'd be walking around the day of my shave with a swagger that would make John Wayne look like a prancing little dancer. Trying a shave like that on yourself, however, just seems foolhardy. These people are professionals for a reason, and it's hard to carry yourself with a cocksure swagger when you might need stitches for that gash under your chin.

Dust

I'm amazed. I tried to set aside a little extra time tonight to the ongoing struggle of me versus my bedroom, and now that things are a tad more squared away and in order, I have noticed something: apparently I let off more dust than the average bear.

Inspired by last night's posting, I picked up my busted up old acoustic which I just have sitting out on a stand all the time, and I tell you this - it looked like my black shirt suddenly was cursed with bleach stains from all the dust that had accumulated (and then put itself on my shirt). So I started looking around, and my god. It's disgusting. Nothing negligent, not dust bunnies or anything, and I'm pretty darn vigilant about vacuuming and all that, but apparently I'm fighting the losing fight here.

But what gives? I have one small room. I am one single person. None of the windows open, so it's not like anything blows in here -- can one person really create this much dust? I don't even spend all that much time in here (though during that whole "thesis writing" thing, I did spend a little bit more time than usual burning the old midnight oil) but really, dust? You're going to play me like that? Coming up in my humble abode and just settling in like you own the joint?

I will leave you with the following words of wisdom, spoken by the character Mark from SLC Punk: "The earth has no way to clean itself. That is why there is so much dust." Paging science: get on that one, please.

Yeah, I Play a Little Guitar...

Unfortunately, that's not necessarily the case so much these days. See, I've kind of become a bit of a bassist these days, and while that's a fantastic thing, I miss playing guitar. I still play a bit from time to time, but in the last eight or ten years, I have mostly limited my guitar playing to band practices. Now that I don't play guitar in said band practices nearly as often, I don't take enough time to sit down and crank out the music as much as I used to.

So what does this mean? Well, it just means I have yet another thing to do with the time that I don't really have all that much of. Still, I feel like I'm somewhat musically stagnated from a creative standpoint, and I think getting back in touch with the ol' guitar is exactly what I've been looking for. I mean -- look at this face, that sheer joy on my face...



You'll have to excuse if this was a somewhat lackluster posting, but I'm really just trying to get into the swing of nightly postings again. I'm setting a bit of a goal to write a post every day in the month of June, and so far I'm two for two, but I've got a little while before I start counting my chickens. But hey, is' a good start.

Re-focus Time

So again I've been afforded the time to blog, and I have noticed that more often than not these days, my issue in blogging has not to do with a lack of time, rather it has more to do with what I consider to be a lack of compelling things to write about. I've been going for the longest time with the byline of "Rants and raves. How to be Bill. The finer things in life and the not-so-finer things from my mind."

Alas, I started this blog back in the beginning of 2008, I was unemployed (somewhat happily so, but I do have to say that this whole "paycheck" thing does make life a lot more fun) and was sitting upon a world of free time. One of the beauties of having so much free time was my time to get out and mix with the fine and interesting individuals that reside in my fine home town. So here we are - a year and a half later, I am gainfully employed (due in part to this blog) and I have received my Master's degree. This is all well and good, but it doesn't make for a whole hell of a lot of interesting blogging fodder. So now, in the hopes of overcoming the writer's block I have been currently facing, I turn to you good folks. I somehow doubt that you really give much of a damn about the day-to-day of movie watching, book reading, or the everyday in and out of work. So the question is: what do you like to read from me?

It'd be good to get a little input to hopefully right the ship a little bit - get the ol' blog up and running like it was back in the glory days. Believe me, I want to be writing fun, witty, and entertaining postings as much as you want to be reading them. So hit me with a few suggestions, and hopefully I'll be back into the swing of things naturally anyhow.

Just A Check Up

Hey all, I know I've been remiss as ever in this whole "I have a blog" thing over the past week or so, but I have actually been out catching up with my friends and partaking in some good old fashioned revelry. Truth be told, I think there's just a little part of me that is happy to know that I don't "have" to write anything if I don't choose to.

I don't want to bore you with specifics, but suffice to say I've been having a good ol' time. Alas, having a good ol' time doesn't make a lot of blog-worthy material, just long nights and less time to blog. But hey, cut your ol' boy a break - I've been doing a bang-up job of distancing myself from this computer while I have been out actually doing something mildly uncommon for a lot of us bloggers - I've been out interacting with people instead of staying at home and writing about it.

Streaming My Love to You at 128 mbps

So I've been to a few shows in the last week, and have seen some of my favorite bands; also on Sunday I rode down to San Jose, listening to a mix CD. All of this got me thinking about what it used to be like, when people actually made honest-to-goodness mixtapes. I'm not talking about the hip hop "Man, you gotta hear my mixtape, I'm going to be huge some day." I'm talking about the old fashioned TDK sixty (or ninety) minute marvels that really meant something.

I assume almost all of us have heard the whole "the making of a great mixtape is a subtle art" monologue from High Fidelity, so I'm going to spare that. Still, the physical act of making a mixtape used to have to mean something. You had to generally create a playlist of the songs you wanted the recipient (or just yourself) to hear. You were generally limited by the music you had on hand, and if you were without a song that you really felt needed to be on there, you had to tape it off the radio, hoping and praying that the DJ didn't prattle on over the intro or outro of the song. You festidiously wrote down track names, maybe even created some artwork if you were of a more artistic bent. You even had to work it out to find songs that were just right to get as close to filling out each side as possible. Then, when you were all ready, you rounded up all your tapes and sat in front of a dubbing deck for generally at least two hours to get that mix perfectly. I miss that. Making mixtapes was one of my fonder memories of growing up. I feel bad that generations from here on out will never really know the labor of love that was the perfect mixtape.

Nowadays, thanks to the wonders of mp3 and the computer, making a mix CD can be done in mere minutes. Don't have a song? Drop a buck and a quarter and you can download just that track. Chances are you can find somewhere just to download it for free, provided it's not an exceptionally obscure song. At least there is some artistic merit left in mix CDs and their packaging, but that is provided you are willing to put in the effort. Still, you toss it all into a playlist, you can even give it a test-listen to make sure everything flows according to plan, and it can go from computerized list to actual physical completed CD in somewhere around five minutes.

However, the other day I saw something that damn near broke my heart: rather than buying a CD or even downloading the album yourself, an artist offered the chance to buy a custom designed USB flash drive with his latest album on it in mp3 form. I do appreciate that there was some artistic merit put into it, it wasn't just like you get a cheapo flash drive with some songs on it, but still, it's the idea. I'm not saying it's the same as a romantic "these songs say how I really feel about you" mixtape, but that could be another logical step.

Another step, and what might be the end of the line in mixtape creation: the streaming online playlist. While it's a great and convenient format for sharing music and playlists, there's no art to it other than arranging the songs. There's no labor to it. I have friends (Augie, I'm looking in your direction) who are incredibly adept at making great public mixtapes, but I just fear that such innovations are leading generations of kids to not know what it's all about. Now I know some audiophiles out there will gripe about the loss of fidelity in copying tapes, and remind me that tape was a poor format to start with, the deterioration, and all that. But dammit, the term mixtape has stuck around this long for a reason, and it sounds a hell of a lot more personal and customized than "streaming playlist available at this url."

While romance may not be dead, the era of the mixtape sure seems to be.

Bill's Triumphant Return to Bloggery

Greetings once again good readers. It's great to be back at long last. This means one thing: I've finished my thesis. It's pretty friggin' exciting, I'm not going to lie. So this means that I will have more time in the evenings and whatnot to really focus on the blog again. I am cooking up a little plan to post a new entry every day for the whole month of June because, well, it's the middle of May already, and I know I'm not going to be doing a ton of blogging next weekend with graduation festivities and all that.

Unfortunately that's about all the news that's fit to print at the moment. I have been so wrapped up in my thesis, I haven't hardly had a moment to think about the random stuff that makes its way into my blog postings or to interact with the weirdos who prompt some of my more memorable writing. But fear not, tomorrow I'll be out and about throughout the day, and I'm sure I'll have some experience with some crazies out there that will send me running home to my laptop.

Actually there is one thing. I have been home the last two afternoons because I've been running around like a madman at State during hours I'd usually work, and I've noticed that now more than ever there are a lot of what I call "loser commercials" on afternoon TV. They all have the same message "Hey, I was once a loser like you, but I called the number on the screen, and now I'm not. I may be a loser, but hey, I have a job and you don't. So call this number, loser."


It's sad. I actually remember the days when my employment was a tad more... scant, and these commercials bothered the hell out of me, and now it's gotten more desperate. Now instead of "I have a kid but I still did it." It's turned into "I have four kids, two of whom need highly specialized medical care that my deadbeat baby-daddy ran away from, but I had time to pick up this phone and call, so now that I work in a pharmacy I can steal my child's meds and they pay me at the same time, so I can put food on my table and still have enough for the french manicure you see from when I picked up the phone when I was pretending to be destitute.

So the next time you have an afternoon off, watch a major network at around 1:00 or 2:00, and you'll see all the commercials I'm talking about. And if you need to, call the number, because they'll help you be not a loser or a deadbeat, but it all starts with a phone call, deadbeat.

That's Gross MUNI Rider. Volume 2.

I've been wanting to write this blog for a while. Alas (and I realize it's definitely a good thing) I have been burning the candle at both ends getting my thesis done. Tonight, however, I took one night of reprieve to relax, have band practice, and get some much needed sleep. Don't look at the time stamp of when I wrote this. It doesn't count.

So anyhow... Not too long ago I returned taking the streetcar in to work in the mornings, after my CEO had ever-so-generously been giving me rides in the mornings. As deeply appreciated as it was, it's good to have the morning to read and shake the ol' dew off the lily. So part of the "joys" of riding the bus is the cast of characters I happen to share streetcars and bus stops with. One such public transportation utilizer I tend to wind up on a lot of trips with is a man who has earned the auspicious title "Snail Man".

I see him from time to time, he gets on and off the bus at my stop, he's not terribly far from my age, and he's an epic geek. Not in the good way. You can just tell. So I tend to be generally indifferent to most passengers, and with my wondrous headphones, I usually don't have any occasion to interact with people, but I just got a weird vibe off the guy from day one.

Then, one day, as I'm walking down towards the bus stop, he is about ten or fifteen paces ahead of me. I find it a little odd that he seems incredibly focused on something along the wall [I should take a second here to insert the fact that I live across the street from a school and public playground, so there's a lot of plant life and all that]. So as I get a better look, I see he's picking up a snail and putting it on the top of the wall. Odd, but hey, whatever. Then he stops again, about ten paces later. And picks up another snail. He places it down on a plant just the other side of the wall. Then he picks up a third snail off the wall, and tosses it into the street.

Odd.

I have kept my space a tad more, as I don't necessarily desire to be in especially close proximity to someone who chooses to handle snails when hand washing is not an immediate option. The other day, though, it was a bit more than I could handle. I am standing at my bus stop, as per the usual, and up walks Snail Man. It's just he and I, and as much as I am doing my best to ignore him, I can't help but see: he's put something down on the edge of the railing that protects me from being crushed by runaway vehicles. At least on the one side. But I get a glance at what he has placed on the railing.

It's a fucking snail.

This is not some impetuous "moving a snail along a wall where it already was" or "giving it back to nature" thing. This man, a seemingly normal individual, decided for some bizarre reason to pick up a snail, carry it from wherever he first got it, transported it across the street, to the bus stop, and was placing it somewhere unsuspecting where anyone could easily accidentally manhandle this poor snail. This, to my eye, is not normal. Then he proceeds to board the bus, hold the handrails with his possibly slimed hands, and proceed to what I can assume is his day's work. This is gross. This makes me want to vomit when I think about it. I mean, hell, hasn't he heard about swine flu? Maybe he's bearing some weird strain of snail flu. Either way, I have yet another reason to wash my hands vigorously any time I leave the bus. Thanks for that, Snail Man. And whatever you do, don't ever try to shake my hand. Because I won't.



On a completely unrelated note, I have added a little poll to the right hand side of the blog, below the links section, which is also recently expanded with some wonderful blogs from some wonderful people.

I am too nice...

... or "When crazy people talk to Bill randomly in a public place, volume 47."

So tonight I'm at the cafe, trying to do some thesis work, and finally making a little bit of legitimate progress. I'm in my "don't bother me, I'm working" mode: hat pulled down, glasses on, headphones on, intent stare on my monitor, papers spread out on the table where I'm working.

This kid walks up, asks if he can sit at the table. Since this is not the least bit uncommon, I happily oblige. Naturally, I do not engage. I continue as I was, staring at the monitor, trying to write. I make a momentary mistake and look up for a split second, and the kid starts talking to me.

So on and on he goes. How he's from Hawaii and on a road trip. How he's taking a semester off to pursue his photography and art. What a wonderful town Albuquerque is. How much he loves San Francisco. The wonders of being on hippie hill in Golden Gate park at 4:20 on 4/20. How the energies of the universe converged to have him discover a six pack of beer from the Kona Brewing Company in a fridge at a friend's house in New Mexico. How literature is fantastic because there's so much in this world to write about. How he may be young but the world is teaching him all sorts of wondrous things as he goes.

After imparting all the world's wisdom to me, he wants to show me his photography... on Facebook. It's cool, I figure I can at least get him to wrap it up and get back to work. It's now been some forty five minutes. So I look at his pictures. They're good enough, I can see he's got an eye for what's what. Then what happens? While he's signed into his facebook account, a chat window pops up. What does he do? He starts chatting with this person - "a fellow traveler." He continues this... for twenty to thirty minutes. I sit there, trying to be polite.

Then, as his conversation online winds down a bit, he begins to regale me with his tale of woe, how he was in Berkeley and lost his friends, how he wound up here but doesn't have the phone number of the guy he is crashing with, how is phone is almost dead. "Can I use your phone?"

Three phone calls later, he's gotten in touch with his friends and is back to chatting on my laptop. I at least got some outlining done in the meantime, since lord knows nothing else was going to get accomplished. In the end, I lost damn near an hour and a half of my life for being polite enough to give up a seat at a table.

Is there a sign around my neck that says "I listen to all your crazy shit and even occasionally feign interest?" Or do these people just have a heightened sense of someone who won't tell them to screw off?