Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Parking Permits and Pigskin Picks

The Faustian bargain has finally been sealed! The Da Vinci of parking spots has been bequeathed upon me. A chunk of downtown real estate to further despoil. Not the location I initially wanted, but it will do ... fine.

Because this one is right next to the finest film rental shop in the city. I see a synergetic sign here -- the universe is telling me that I need to get back to watching films. The finest films.

Mephistopheles, however, has already begun to reap his reward -- Concussion, Vol IV commenced this morning. No matter, I'm feeling rather the Ubermensch these days. No black rain is gonna dampen my spirit, for however long its still mine. I'm gonna break my rusty cage. I'm gonna drink the Devil's milkshake.

Nothing finer than drinking the Devil out of his milkshake.

Phantasy football draft tonight at the pub. New kids picking last, but Bomber predicts we'll pound them all. Like bastards from a blanket.

Now that would be fucking fine.

And there definitely will be blood.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Operant Instrumental

Good time with Snakey at Sir Johnny's last night. Hard core international mountain biker. Great Walls. Greater Falls. Shit load of Balls.

One night long ago, on the other side of the bosphoric bridge, as everyone waited for their shawarmas, Cousine's girlfriend got into a shit talking session with a local professional. When the situation began to escalate, in rushed the pimp. Snakey, a patient and pragmatic intellect, casually stepped into the fray, and after a brief flurry of activity, the local administrator's upper lip parted in a Red Sea of blood. The cops threw him into the cruiser, nodded at Snakey and sent everyone on their way. Such was, and undoubtedly still is, Snakey. Musician, engineer, loyal friend.

Got home late, but had to get up early. Day of the Dentist, rated R.

After a look at the various instruments of torture laid out before me, I quickly realized that it definitely wasn't going to be Safe. Or Secret. Too many people walk around with teeth that have permanently plunged into Gollumnic territory. I knew something needed to be done.

Speaking of tools, the Strombo Show last week was all about the best vocalists/frontmen in contemporary music, taking the band as the organizing principle. Why does instrumental music not get its 2-part series? Are we so hung up on vocal accompaniment, on hearing the human voice, that we can't regularly enjoy extended sequences of intricate instrumental sound that has the aesthetic qualities that move us in one direction or another. Are we operantly conditioned to listen for the voice? For the story? For the parable? For the reference? Is the rule of metaphor so limited? Can't music itself be referential? Can't it nod and challenge?

Not to suggest that the qualities of lyricism and narrative are lost on me. And I certainly like my great frontmen/frontwomen as much as the next music lover. For every Buckley (pere et fils), there are those who sound so bad they're untenably good. God bless Neil. Others insist on providing vocals when the music sells itself. Sorry Les.

But isn't that just it? The music.

So yeah, thankfully we've got Jimi and Jack. Morrissey and Maynard. Roger and Rivers. Ian and Ian. Plant and Page (not that one).

"Instrumental music", as poor a term as it is, spans all the contemporary genres, save for country and folk music. Then again, I learn something new every day. But you'll rarely hear an instrumental track on a radio station (that doesn't focus on jazz or classical).

Beyond the obvious problem of track length, does the lack of vocals initiate an attention deficit? Are audible explosions or a massive vocal attack necessary? What does it take for respect, for people to give a hoot about it? At the very least, can't it be washed down with an antacid?

Goodspeed to you all. Go out into the world and do, make, say, and think.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

The Information

High noon on Sparks.

Antebellum Beau's. Black Sabbath brats. Bosomed beauties. Bridgehead brews. Beanie or Brady. Bruinschrusher or Brawler. Boom or bust. Bomber says we're gonna win the Bowl.

Still waiting for the Information. Its coming to me now. Climbing up the ladder. Top of the world. A triangular pyramid. Money rolls up, shit rolls down. The campaign is nearly over, the endgame in sight. I've got an exit management solution. An obscene strategy. A shining path in front of me.

A stereo situation no more. Gotta take extreme measures. An armed response.

The Information is on its way.