Monday October 04 05:24:13 PM
911 is a Joke in My Town
So there's this parking lot next to my house. It's owned by my landlord, who I love, and who at one time told us that he didn't want to sell it 'cause "somebody might put up a building and ruin your view of Mt. Tamalpais." What a sweetie!
Over the course of several months, the people who rent out the lot for their business have been lax in enforcing the parking rules, allowing this guy with three dead cars to populate the back end with his mistakes. My wife and I have called the cops over and over but they always seem to get there a bit too late. The second-to-last-time, the woman operator at the police station told her she couldn't send anybody until "after curfew", which is bullshit as I've had them come out in the afternoon in the past.
We might have gotten our answer last night.
I was calling the police one last time, as the last time I'd spoken to a police officer, he had missed the 9-person gathering by, oh, several hours, and he called to apologize and emphasize the low-priority of my wife's and my plight. I assured him that I understood, but deep in my heart I once again felt very let down by my tax-paid-for police force.
I fully expected to have another great conversation with the lady on the other end of the phone, explaining to her in great detail the facts of last night's parking lot adventures. Recently, a boat as magically appeared there, upping the count of illegally-parked vehicles to 4: A black Camaro, a silver Ranchero, a black Ford pick up circa '75, and this boat. Yesterday, a silver BMW appeared, backing up to the far end of the lot and apparently attempted to start the Ford. THEN, this morning, looking out the window and noticing that in addition to all the cars that were still in the tableau of last night's valiant attempt there was a new, fully-bondo'd 60s Buick of some kind, also with its hood up. That's THREE hoods up.
Unfortunately, last night at 2:30am caught me fully with my protective pants down. There was a message on the other end of the line stating that because of recent budget cuts, there was nobody to answer the fucking phones and if I had any emergencies to call 911. Or call back at 8:30am.
Isn't this like some "End Times" shit?
Monday September 06 10:20:26 AM
Meme spotted on the web, about a billion times: "I, for one, welcome our * overlords."
While searching this meme out, I searched for the first known entry, (which, you that have Simpson's fever will know comes from there) and found this instead:
http://www.cbc.ca/stories/2002/11/22/spiders021121. This story is from 2002, but it's quite a thing anyway, right?
Wednesday September 01 02:21:12 PM
Entry at archive.org for a concert from March 2003 in Toronto. The 552mb zip file of the entire concert in FLAC format.
I don't think I mind it too much, but I also don't care about it too much, but I'm a bit confused about it. Are they CRASS?
© ca. 1950 BAMBI!TM®
This is what the Interweb is for.
I'd like to say right now that I have NOTHING to REPORT as regards misconceptions of the childhood sexual variety. Save for the fact that when I was in 6th grade, I thought I had to have the head of my penis chopped off. One year, I tried to get a copy of the recently-published ";Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Sex (But Were Afraid To Ask)," and in this book, there was a description of the foreskin of the male penis. Not having ever known what circumcision was, I assumed that I had not undergone this procedure. I looked at my penis, and I had a slight discoloration half-way down my penis, where there was a kind of pinkish-looking skin at the top and 'regular' skin near the bottom, towards my...groinal area, but nothing strange or scarlike surrounding my 'glans' or 'purple helmet', whichever nomenclature you prefer. (Of course, I should have been tipped-off by the half-inch wide scar-like tissue which divided the pink section from the 'regular-skinned' section. Kids. I knew all about feedback, tone, amplifiers, Gibson vs. Fender, and even what "Spoonful" meant, but my own penis? Whatever.)
Since I was unaware of any procedure ever having been performed on my penis, I thought that a circumcision would 'shave' the 'head' off my penis, making it more of a sleek rocket, more able to 'penetrate' the 'defenses' of your Standard American Girl. This of course would accompany a deep drop-off in sensitivity for me, but it would be worth it, wouldn't it? Entering into The Sacred Team of The American Circumcised? (Or The Secular Circumcised. That's better, isn't it? I hereby claim invention of this term.)
I don't think it was until far after that (probably upon my first [and only!] viewage of hardcore pornography) that I was made aware of the fact that not only had I undergone the procedure at some time in my earliest youth, but that most everybody I'd ever met had done so as well. It wasn't until my 23rd-or-so year that I saw the appendages of a dear friend (and then several years later, a cult-level rock star from England) up close (in the same room, but no closer than, say, 1 or 2 meters), thereby sealing my understanding that people who hadn't undergone the procedure were 'weird' and should be shunned.
Since I am a man-hater (and a woman-lover) I (and my wife) decided to keep the offending chunk of skin on our son's penis. Hopefully, he will, in the future, be shunned as well.
Sunday August 22 05:50:37 PM
Being Norwegian, not only do I care about this, but I've actually seen it at the Munch Musem in Bergen, Norway. I love Munch, even his post-psychiatry, ostesibly-cured pictures. The Scream isn't one of his better paintings, is it?
Stupid Internet Tricks
Since this is, by default, my 'blog', I'm implementing Haloscan's commenting feature. See how this fares with my 'crew'. My 'posse'. My mos def individumals.
Click on the comment link below each post to bring up a new window. Within this window you will find - at the bottom (scroll down, pilgrim) - a place to input your 'name' your 'website' and your 'email'. All of these are non-verifiable so you can lie your asses off, but the point is that you try to keep your own username. Hell, lie about who you are, but at least keep it consistent and don't steal somebody's username to make them look bad. At least be reasonable. I don't have any fantasies about this becoming a useful feature for the individuals who come here looking for whatever interesting tidbits they come here looking for, but at least pretend it's fun. I never really was interested in doing the 'chat' thing that my server supplies. It's grody to the max and isn't very useful or pretty. I also am not interested in this being an adjunct to the AFFZ newgroup. I am also not interested in keeping it up if it becomes a giant hate-fest. Also, and I think this is most important: I'm a coward, so anybody starts getting all in my grill about shit and I can't find a way to nix their postings (I really don't have time in my life for flame wars and the like) I'll just cancel the whole experiment. So there you have it: Keep it civil, and we'll have some fun. Turn it into just another place where warring factions can battle for intellectual supremacy and I'll just take it back offline. I especially mean it for any of the political stuff I might have to say (on the other page). Just leave it alone and it will leave you alone. Capiche?
One last thing: if you can't get the haloscan page to refresh so you can see your post, do NOT click refresh. You'll get a double post. The page refreshes itself after hitting OK, so just leave it alone, willya?
Being a Bass Player Magazine Reader...NOT.
I apologize for the outdated usage above, but really. Why bother reading something that has nothing to do with one's world? You don't read piano player magazines if you're a guitarist, do you? And don't tell me you do if you're the only one in your barrio who does. I'm talking generalities, here.
So of course fucking not am I going to be reading ol' Bass Player Magazine, even if it reflects poorly on my bassplayerosity. I'm a man, not a bass, and I refuse to allow my peers to dictate my function.
That said, let me state thusly: I am still a member in good standing in the Bass Army. I take my lumps rather well being that I don't get any joy from the...joy. Nobody gets to be an ex-bass player like I do, friends. I get to sit on my fat fern and talk all sorts of shit about all sorts of things because I don't lose anything from the complications.
I used to think that way about pretty much most of the things that appeared on my horizon (at least in theory) but I'm gonna drop a bomb on youse: I am deeply happy about something that just happened in the bass realm.
I'm talking about the article written about me in the aforementioned rag (August, 2004) by my old friend, Joe Escalante, of The Vandals "fame".
So, in this article, he says some stuff. It's fun to read (at least for me) and I think it might be fun for you, too, Dear Reader.
I went to two schools today, trying to figure out where my daughter will reside, scholastically, for the next, oh, several years.
Needless to say, I got no work done. But I DID hang out with my beautiful daughter, swappin' manly stories and generally having a wonderful time. Alone-Time is the best.
I have been on a Slightly-Less-Than-Optimal-Amount-of-Beer Diet, thanks to my First-Stage High Blood Pressure diagnosis. This has been severely less-than-optimal of a life for me. I've decided that whatever I need to do to continue my beer-drinking at an optimal level, I will do.
I need very little sleep to survive.
My wife is fan-fucking-tastic.
The past several nights have been spent filling up a present. 30 gigs worth of music takes a long time to fill, even when you know what you want on 'there'. The complete works of Frank Zappa are no way to fill a present unless it's being given to another as a present. Wouldn't that be the best?
When Devin Townsend 'joined' Steve Vai's band, he was given, I guess as some kind of 'tip', for 'being' 'in' the 'band', every FZ album turned into a CD at that point. I'm pretty sure he told me he never once listened to them. Would he have preferred cash?
I was sitting here typing and having a beer at 4:20 am (dood! Four-twenty!) when I saw a visual anomaly off my periphery. I tipped my head to one side and noticed a blur. I refocussed and saw a spider dangling from the ceiling. I took my 7/8th's-empty beer bottle in hand and placed it gently under the spider. It went in. Success! I shook the beer bottle enough to 'drown' the poor spider (I was too lazy to take it outside, my usual process). I went back to what I was doing, and saw a blur in my periphery. I did a Keanu and saw the black cat walk past the doorway once more. Another, totally separate-but-equal spider was dangling from the ceiling. I performed my bottle-catch and shook the bottle again. Two spiders. WEIRD!!!
My family cannot sleep with covers on. Well, my wife can, but my children will not only take off the covers but will denude themselves as well. I can go into their bedroom at anytime and see them sans clothing. I must re-cover them constantly. Still, there are wet spots at their pillow. The sweat they exude is matched only by the sweat I exude whilst walking around my house during the Summer, underwear-only. Pathetic. I must have come from Norway...oh. I did!
My son plays the drums exceedingly well. I gotta show you sometime.
Sometime during the year previous to last year (the ante-penultimate one) I gave away my last copy of "In Cold Blood" so I actually have no copy I can call my own. I deserve it.
(date will have to wait. Browsers acting up.)
Go here for political. Why not? Sure. Whatever.
Saturday July 31 07:44:31 PM
Back in the early 90s, I played on this home-brewed album with my friend, Kyle Thayer. He was on a Celtic trip and I wasn't, but a gig was a gig, and he was a good gig. An old friend, a tasteful musician, and a great man.
I drove up from LA back to Marin to hang out for a week at his house. We recorded my tracks in a week, with a string bass in an attic with an 8-track reel-to-reel. All of the tracks weren't there, but I had an acoustic guitar and Kyle's Cittern to play against. Later, more overdubs and the violin, among other things.
It was later put out on cassette and disappeared into the ether.
Last year, Kyle remastered it to be put out on CD. It's being sold on CDBaby: Rainshadow.
While you're there, you can do the Geoff Wolf thing and buy "In Remembrance"
Monday July 25 05:31:18 PM
July 25th, New Content Issue
Hello there. New concept. No political crap for a while.
Gotten a couple of comments in meatspace about my site, and only one of them was politically-oriented. Mostly, they're about certain aspects of the site that always confound me. I don't recognize my writing as anything but blather, but my audience knows its stuff and "I'm It".
Couple things happened lately that gave me some negative connotations to this endeavor, but I'm over them with a vengance now. The first one was a personal event that only occurred because of this website.
In this event, something that was written here was misinterpretated and given far more import than normally would occur. Unfortunately, there was no way I could honestly give the misinterpretators an indiciation of my true meaning because I was so angry that something so simple could be taken even remotely out of context (remember the War on Metaphor? Similar. War on Context is just as bad and just as insidious. I refuse to buckle under to the scourge. Or something...) that I rejected the entire situation as out of my frame of reference.
Further, I neglected to communicate with these people at ALL, therefore making the possible damage far worse. I was told that the misinterpretation was communicated to these individiuals and that - as far as I'm concerned - is all that is needed. If these people can be told exactly what was true and real by somebody they trust and they still choose to take offense, I'm leaving it alone until they communicate with me directly.
I'm always quite taken with the fact that anybody at all reads this. But there is one piece of proof after another, with people writing me and asking me specific questions about specific elements of the site that were only recently posted. Yay, me.
I'm thinking my readership is up around...oh...ten. (Checked my stats, and I've got quite a readership. No. I don't have quite a readership, but I do have at least 203 unique hits a day, averaging over the month of July, which means that I have the entire readership of the Zappa newsgroup hitting me up every day. Quite a responsibility!)
Parenting and happiness
I've been thinking a bit lately about happiness, and it seems I've got quite a lot in my life. Last weekend, I had three parties to go to. Parties! I mean, this is a logical extension from having children, but the ramifications are endless. Why am I being subjected to happiness at such a public level? If I were a rocker still, my accolades (imagined or otherwise) would be mostly private. If I were performing, the truth of the matter is that it wouldn't add much to my happiness, at least publicly. Autographs are great. I loved giving them. All fifty or so times I was asked, that is. OK, maybe a hundred, but still.
I mean, I wouldn't have much reason to show the world my 'happy' because it's a private thing. But having these two children and having the world recognize their innate wonderfulness is just super-peachy. I'm talking about the birthday party yesterday where several parents of other children came up to me and told me how wonderful they thought Hazle was. And she was. She'd focussed on the happiness of many of the other children other than her. We're talking about giving some of her piñata candy to smaller kids who couldn't 'get in' to the melee, and to children who for some reason or another didn't get as much as her.
To another child, she'd help with her paper plate and napkin, showing her how to secure the napkin under the plate to keep it from blowing away.
Hazle is still 4 years old (at least until September).
The point I'm trying to make is that my happiness is public specifically because my children are recognized for not only their wonderfulness, but because that wonderfulness - while the words 'wonderfulness' or its associates are not acknowledged overtly by my commentors - is indirectly associated with the parenting that Georgia and I have accomplished. Not that we think of it that way. We are sure that we refuse all accolades and kudos that come our way. Our understanding is that we are without responsibility for this form of activity as our direction is fully oriented toward the service industries. We hope that Hazle finds a nice spot on the payroll of one of your finer fast food establishments. Manager is too good to hope for. We're thinking milkshakes or fries for our little one!
Of course Georgia and I are sure that Hazle's fantasticality is innate, we are happy to suck up the joy. Try telling a commentor that your child is so incredibly wonderful on their own. (Nature vs. Nurture - I'm pretty sure - is a debate that is quite dead in ol' Marin County. We're all WONDERFUL because we live in MARIN!) Try telling somebody who's come up to you to tell you how wonderful your child is that your child freaks YOU out with her fantasticality, and that you're totally confused about it as you beat her regularly about the face and neck and fully expect her to become a Republican or serial murderer because of it.
The director of our current day care facility has attempted to confuse us with some blather about Hazle being the most social child there, being part of no single clique but rather a floating entity, handling all the other children - younger and older - with a grace and strength that can only be attributed to the spectacular parenting exhibited by Georgia and I. I belayed her with a couple of quick lines about 'innate'ness and being 'hands-off' parents, thinking that would be the end of it, but no. She could not help herself and she made up story after story about Hazle's activities.
"She's a regular butterfly! She's in love with babies, as she's a nurturer, but she also loves the bigger kids, except of course _____, as she and _____ are inseperable, but other than that..."
And all this time I'd thought she was a loner in school like her father and her mother before her. Member of no group but all groups aware of their existences. Socially apt, but support-systemless (at least within the High School system: Georgia free of that scourge by her tireless devotion to The Dance [otherwise known as "The Ballet"] and I through drugs and later, music [I started playing bass when I was ten, but started smoking pot before that]), we wondered and wandered through the halls of our respective schools (she at San Rafael High, later to be a free agent through the judicial use of work-study and directed-study, or whatever they call "non-class-going" nowerdays, and I at Sir Francis Drake High School, having missed almost all of it by the judicial use of my mother as Music Department Secretary at College of Marin, otherwise known as "Playing One's Connections", thereby becoming a "free agent" at the age of 15 and spending all my time in the Music Department racking up straight C's and listening to non-canonical Fusion and Classical Music at the Music Library, graduating from College...I mean High School...with enough credits to blow it off properly (having failed the GED) making High School more of a dim memory of a non-occurring event rather than something to purposefully eject/erase from one's mind. I have many great great great memories of my High School Years, but very little of them had anything to do at all with High School. Funny, right? Let's not talk about Junior High. I have MANY painful memories of that nightmare. Dave Martin, anyone? Waking up to a punch in the nuts every day was no International Bass Solo, let me tell you.
Pretty hella lucky is your intrepid reporter. Friend of ours bartends at a pub two blocks away (no, it's not the Pint Size). She decided to have a "Lingerie Party".
I was at the mall with the kids the other day and we saw her there. She was with a cute friend named Star and they were Lingerie Shopping. "Would you like to come?" Well, I coulda, but I had-a the kids, so no. I had to settle for viewing their purchases post try-on. In the bag, I mean.
The wife and I have a pretty good collection going, so we showed some of it off last night. The wife had to ask what all the little brown bows meant (placed in strategic areas on many of the pieces worn by the ladies last night). We were informed that it was the Victoria's Secret logo. Looks to me that Victoria's Secret at the mall made a pretty good haul this week.
The thing about Marin County is that it's a hotbed for incipient lesbianism, or at least recreational bisexuality. Or at least heavy flirting between the girls. Or at least humorous attempts at kissing, hugging, fake petting, and butt-pinching...with some breast-grabbing and neck-slurping thrown in for good measure.
The bar is small, cozy, and used to be a 6:00am lifer's bar. It got repurposed as a young-person's soon-to-be lifer bar. Many of the locals who need strong alcohol and sports TV go there. We end up there ever' once in a while because of the pretty bartender and her friends. Many of them have taken old Georgia as the 'new meat', having spent their lives with each other, and are entranced by her grace, beauty, intelligence and poise. Not to mention her radical hotness and ability to blend in with the natives.
The worry pre-Party was that she was going to be under-dressed, then while we were walking there, over-dressed. She waltzed through the door - being a lingerie-clad hottie - but I kinda got stopped, having only really some PJ bottoms (blue, pale pin striped Calvins) which I wore with a pale blue Calvin shirt that ended up in my closet somehow, making me look like - in the words of my friend Brandon who was there with his girl, Holly - an escapee from an institution. I blustered my way through by showing the PJ-ness of my bottoms and had a couple of beers while my wife found her lingerie-feet.
It didn't take long for her to be dancing with the rest of them. Them. Like, oh, 30 mostly-beautiful women dressed up in very sexy and fairly expensive costumes. Not whore-like, but dressed up to please, in pretty packages. Several were completely under-dressed, wearing nothing but sheer bras and panties, but fortunately the dominant panty style was my favorite, the boy-short.
Others wore things over their bras and panty sets (BnPSs) like slips and teddies, making for a nice construction. Some less exhibitionistic wore satin retro full-length slips, covering most of the sexually-important areas of their bodies from view. Mostly, they were right to do so, but it was a distancing device, making them less 'there' than they otherwise would be. Point: the one girl who wore a black lace teddy and a pale pink see-through baby-doll with boa trim told my wife that she usually wears more than this during sex. The four girls who came in late all looked like Mid-Marin (Kentfield, Larkspur) matrons-to-be, attempting to 'stretch-out' and go 'native', but they just looked severely uncomfortable in their mother's (or thrift-store) slips. They didn't mingle, nor did they dance, or over-lubricate themselves. Good thing, I guess. Gotta keep 'em separated.
The DJ owns a local punk record store, so the entire night was filled with 80's hits, the favs of the bartender putting on the party (strangely enough, the sound blew donkeys. Looked good up close, JBL monitors and such, but no bass to speak of. I mentioned to G that it sounded better in our CR-V with its stock stereo blowing out 70's rock from my iPod with 128k mp3s. Whatever!). She wore a pretty expensive BnPS under a sheer white, low-cut pale white baby-doll with boa trim (no, she didn't go shopping with the other baby-doll wearer, sometimes the old favorites are just the right thing to go with). I like the black with eggshell-shaded lace BnPSs, especially if the P is a semi-boy-short. It looks especially good on your flatter ass.
What's wrong with the flatter ass, anyway? I don't have a problem with it. Sure, the Bubble Butt has a certain charm, and you could say it's the Classic, but there is a charm to the flatter butt that makes the image of rubbing one's hand over it (or sliding one's body up and down it) quite attractive. I'm not going to get in any arguments about it, as I do have my preferences. Getting older, I guess.
There were two girls there with the ruffled panty on, both of whom had the larger butt. The larger of the two butts was a pretty big butt, but the owner gamely wore a more boy-shorted ruffled panty displaying more of the bottom of her butt than I would have thought appropriate, even for a venue of this type. It curved up at the back bottom, leaning towards a double-crescent. But it was quite beautiful, and evidenced by the tens of constant companions, she was quite friendly. As a matter of fact, she was allegedly some kind of 'horse person' and had brought a riding crop with her, which she allowed pretty much anybody to use on her. Gently, of course. Nice! It made the rounds of faux-whippers and game girlfriends.
An interesting sub-concept for the evening was the fact that there were several individuals of an Hispanic genetic history there, not wearing any type of even fake pajama-type-clothing. I had been under the impression that one was supposed to wear some form of sleep-type clothing to gain entrance to this 'private party'. The entire evening must have been a setup to give several of the workers there a free pass to Heaven. They brought cameras and sat there stony-faced (until approached happily by one of the girls, sticking together and taking pictures, then undergoing a metamorphosis into laughing and snickering and smiling up a storm). Many were danced-with, so I'm thinking they were given a pass on the whole pajama-thing. I'll have to ask my bartender friend about that...
Girls kissed other girls, girlfriends made their boyfriends very happy, and there was also a pregnant woman there (due in five days, and who gladly put up with wearing a bustier-and-baby-doll set that had a sheer, skin-tight torso-encasing section that I can't find an example of online so you'll just have to trust me) who laid on the leopard-print-mattress-covered mattress/pool table for an hour or so watching the procedings, having her boyfriend kiss her belly and bring her water. What a trouper!
All in all, a fine time was had. At least until my idiot friend who'd gotten birthday cake on himself somehow decided that it would be a good time to get some on me, so he threw some cake my way. Got on my shirt. I then hugged my wife - 'cause I love her, you dolts - and got some on her new jacket. I left in a huff, and she huffed out of there with me, and we strolled home arm in arm in the moonlight the two blocks back to our home, where we made up by putting birthday cake all over each other's bodies and then rinsing it off with Champagne! Ah, Marin!
Don't tell me that adults don't know how to have drug-free fun.
Wednesday June 30
Good list from The Poor Man Guess who he's talking about? OK, that's too easy...
"He has lied about his time in the National Guard, and lied about his criminal history. He lied about his relationship with Ken Lay, he lied about who would benefit from his tax cuts, and he lied about stem cells. He lied about his visit to Bob Jones University, he lied about why he wouldn't meet with Log Cabin Republicans, and he lied about reading the EPA report on global warming. He lied about blaming the Clinton administration for the second intifada, he lies constantly about how he pays no attention to polls, he lied about how he loves New York, and he lied about moving the US embassy in Israel to Jerusalem. He lied about finding WMD in Iraq, he lied about making his decision to go to war, he lied about the CIA's dismissal of the yellowcake rumors, and he lied about the IAEA's assessment of Iraq's nuclear program. He lied about funding the fight against AIDS in Africa, he lied about when the recession started, and he lied about seeing the first plane hit the WTC. He lied about supporting the Patient Protection Act, and he lied about his deficit spending, and now my wrist hurts."
Saturday May 01 01:03:18 AM
Saturday Day - Partial transcript
My toilet has been giving me grief for the past three or four years, so G and I went and got a new one yesterday. This morning, I hoped that Jerry would come down and help me out (also to lend me his wife's Pee Wee's Playhouse VHS collection, which humorously enough contains the episode "Fire in the Playhouse" that I composed and performed exclusively) but we had to rush out the house to spend the day in Sausalito at some dumpy 'fair' that had 'kids' written all over it.
I came back knowing that my time was short, as we had the Visiting-In-Laws Dinner to go to this evening. There shouldn't have been ALL that much difficult about putting the damn thing in so I jumped in with gusto. Jerry didn't answer his phone and I had G and David here. I figured that would be enough. I was pretty correct.
The main thing we did last time was conveniently have two friends visiting and have them lift the toilet (closet, in manufacturer parlance) and set it down upon the tube. The tube has a wax seal sitting on it and there are two 't-bolts' on either side which go through the holes in the bottom of the closet. The problem is triangulating the placement of the closet so that it sits correctly on the wax and allows the upside-down t-bolts to poke through the holes.
I had forgotten that last time, wax splooged through the holes. I hadn't read the instructions last time so I didn't know that you were supposed to place the wax seal on the closet and then lower the whole thing down. This time, I purchased a wax seal (a totally gross thing that weighs a pretty good half pound or so and is about a 3/4 of an inch thick) THIS TIME with a plastic flange around the bottom. I assumed rightfully that this would assist in the aim, but I was not to be the aimer this time. My wife would have that privilege.
David and I raised and held and lowered (and raised and lowered and held and blah blah blah for several tense minutes while the wife adjusted our aim repeatedly) and finally got it to go down correctly.
The damn thing wobbled, and I freaked quietly. This hadn't happened last time, had it? Fuck!
I looked for the hardware (washers, nuts, and plastic bolt covers) for a couple of minutes, came back to the closet empty-handed and looked in the hole that the water from the tank is supposed to go through at the back of the closet. I was in for a nasty shock.
I had conveniently (or so I thought) placed the hardware in this hole in the back of the closet for safe-keeping, not realizing that the parts were in there during the transportation from the bedroom (where the closet spent the night) to the bathroom in David's and my hands. When I came back to the bathroom, I saw one of the washers sitting at the bottom of the bowl.
This reminded me that I had seen one of the brass nuts sitting in this shallow depression in the back of the closet and I should look there for the rest of the connecting hardware. I was in luck.
But then I wasn't.
Yes, all the parts were back there, but the tipping one way and then another drove them down, down, down into the bowels of the closet bowl (all this jargon, and then: poetry!). I whipped out one last coat hanger (a coat hanger had been my daily weapon in the war between me and my feces) to fish out the hardware but was only partially successful. One part remained lost.
Unfortunately, the part which remained inside was I think the worst possible choice for fate to leave there: the eggshell-shaped-and-sized cap to the inverted T-bolt at the bottom of the closet. This cap could possibly cause such havoc to the processing of the descending tank-water as to render the entire closet unusable. I once again quietly freaked.
My wife was late for present-buying and left in a hurry. David hovered hopefully but his job was done.
The bathroom was a mess of ancient below-the-toilet muck, wet towels and rusty tools. I had two kids in the next-door bedroom playing with small, fragile toys from a giant under-the-bed drawer which was now empty. The room looked like a rich person's pinata had exploded. Fortunately, they were relatively quiet.
I fumed and took action. I was not going to remove the closet once again, forcing me to return to my local hardware store to purchase another wax seal, return to have David and I search the insides of the closet for the offending cap which would only *possibly* give us a deep sense of satisfaction, scrape off the old wax from the bottom of the closet, replace the whole thing without my wife's guidance (I could use Hazle's eagle eye, but really, she's a genius in so many ways, but she's only 4 and a 1/2...) and do the further connecting and testing basically alone. I was going to finish up this sucker and move on with my initial poo-testing. I was primed (so to speak).
After all was said and done, the wife returned, angry at her lack of successfulness in present-purchasing. She neglected to shower me with the now-necessary effulgent effusiveness I required for my labors. We were both quite cranky.
We had to leave for dinner.
I had three beers in quick succession, ate a wonderful meal of penne and an arrabiata-level-spicy mixture of very moist partially-sun-dried tomatoes and chicken (in a very light clear sauce), played outside with Virgil and the Haze for a bit (Virgil having brought his Ukulele with him and making quite a nuisance of himself with the rock-posturings and perfect-strummings) and rushed home to continue my project of drinking some more beers and turning my wife's 2003 dual-USB 800mHz iBook into a tri-booted machine (Gentoo Linux, OS9 and OS X). I have to finish up offloading all the necessary work files of my wife's and mine before I can feel good about formatting it. It's been a year without backups and it's laden with the work and personal detritus of 365 non-backed-up days.
Over 20 CDs have been burned of what I can see as being client files of both my wife's and mine, my Eudora email backups, our mutually-exclusive downloads and documents, and whatever little teensy wee smidgens of crap that make ones life in the computer realm easier: bookmarks for the browsers and the ftp clients, preference files, and of course, the all-important Baby/Child/Toddler/Prince and Princess pictures of our lovely and talented childers.
Now I take my friend's advice and shove as much as I can onto the Linux Machine as a harddrive-to-harddrive backup system. I hope and pray that I am leaving nothing of import on the iBook's drive for me to erase permanently during my should-be-regular formatting and reformatting procedure.
You can rest assured that from now on I will be following major-league regular backup procedures so that this several-week-long tension festival I've been experiencing (about hosing my wife's prized material possession and using it as a development platform for personal and work-related projects) may never happen again.
I realize how lucky I am. There is at this point no documents lost. Nothing is lost. I am only being paranoid. But I am tired, and I am groggy and disorganized. This is a bad combination. BUT! I will not be doing anything tonight (at this late hour) save getting my sandals on and running off to the 7-11 for some milk. I have three beers left and it's still early (only quarter-to-two!). I have time to drink the rest of the beers and watch the progress bar on the iBook decrease from 25 hours - 19 hours - its right-now level of 13 hours left (off-loading files to the Linux server) to something less fear-inducing like maybe 5 hours or 4...something to let me know that not only is progress being made, but that it'll be done by the time morning comes around...
Saturday May 01 01:03:18 AM
Back in the day, the Dweezil band used to rehearse. Funny, right?
Actually, we used to rehearse a f**king ton. The first year and a half, Josh Freese, DZ and I would rehearse over 25 hours a week, daily getting in 5 full hours on a work-week basis. Josh was 18 or so, DZ was 22 and I were 32.
Mostly, I was as poverty-stricken as an LA musician can be without having to live on Yucca and carry a bass, no-case, strap-on-shoulder (see History of GIT, chapter 23: "Pathetic Trust-Fund Babies") and therefore was mostly unable to pay for my share of any "LA Italian Restaurant Lunch Menu meal" I might encounter during my tenure with the Younger Zappas.
During these standardized mealtimes, our ensemble might find itself at a sit-down Mexican restaurant on Lankershim, a burrito place, an Italian place near Coldwater Canyon, or this place in Burbank we frequented (located in the building you can see over the roofs of the tract homes as a blooper during the nighttime sequences in that Tom Hanks movie, "The Suburbs") that actually held caricatures of movie stars on its walls but wasn't a 'deli'.
These meals sometimes had interesting conversations and other times had pseudo-interesting individuals attending. The pre-"Friends" Giovanni Ribisi (known at the time as Vonnie), a friend of Ahmet's named Tory (a guy who owned an actual DeLorean with the license-plate "OUTTATIME"), (Tori?), and Moon were frequent contributors to the scenelet.
Quite often, any one of a myriad of games were used to keep daily doldrumesque boredom at bay, and the boys (and Moon) were always ready with some kind of game, either physical or mental.
This one day, the game consisted of some manner of word-invention or discernment. I wondered aloud if there might be something for that situation where some wag decides to waste precious communication energy by repeating another's verbal mistakes/ malaprops/ spoonerisms or whathaveyou for the sheer purpose of giving one shit. It's kind of like a pun: the lowest form of humor (although a friend of mine deeply resented this epithet and called punning the highest form of humor. I refuse to further enjoin that conversation.) but in this case, the lowest form of communication. For some reason, Gail Zappa used to allow herself this one tic, and one would have to be extremely careful to never misspeak whilst around her. I was rarely her prey, but I saw many individuals shudder in her presence, and I don't mean her physical presence.
This word game came to an abrupt end when our meals arrived, and the multiple moments we had to come up with something (before the permanent distraction of our lunch) bore no fruit. I was not surprised. It was a toughie. I received major props for coming up with something that gave the Brothers Zappa pause. This happened quite rarely.
We ended up at the house that night, and I was once again in the bosom of the Zappa family. Frank was in good sprits, although at that time, his good spirits were no different than his choleric moments. I mentioned my word problem to him...my 'sniglet', if you will, and he hesitated not at all. The word popped out of his mouth with...well, with nothing between the hearing and the saying.
A very useful word was a-borned. Use it with our pleasure.
Saturday April 17 07:47:05 PM
The ending of the "Spot the Thunes" contest.
There was no winner. There were no contestants.
You all suck. Well, actually, you would, if you existed, dear readers.
It was the back of Popular Mechanics, if you can believe that.
It was a Napster ad.
Excitement Central, over here at Geoscott.com
Thursday April 08 01:14:27 AM
I know you guys know this, but Al Franken (I saw him at a book-signing at Cody's in Berkeley around 1995 when Georgia worked there, and he was probably very tired from whatever it is writers get tired from on long-ass book tours talking to audiences made up of people who only wish to hear you talk like fucking Stuart Smalley while your incredible and incredibly funny book, 'Rush Limbaugh is a Big Fat Idiot [and other observations]' is the reason you're touring, but he was still a prick to me) has started his radio show, along with Chuck D (are Public Enemy any good? I don't listen to that type of music, although I have heard him talk, and that's quite a voice he has on him) and Janeane Garofalo. Kudos to them.
Not that it will change one mind, but it's nice to hear stuff that doesn't make you wanna barf on the ol' Marconi (and yes, I'm aware that Marconi lost his lawsuit attempting to get the record to show that it was he and not Tesla who invented radio, but if I called it 'The Tesla', you'd think I was talking about Al Franken talking on the Tesla Coil, or even the Tesla band. Fuck that.)
Watching a movie with the wife. More later.
Wednesday April 07 09:46:36 AM
Back again, like it matters
Archive page for past Main Page updates can be found here: Wow. Interesting stuff, Scott! Take me to your history! UnBeLIEVEable!
Now that that's over with...well, there's nothing important to report. Don't have time to not report it. Morning before work. Breakfasts. Owies. Krusteaz Pancake mix that I completely blew the mixing of yesterday. Big, thick, pointless pancakes that I nevertheless foisted upon my youthful charges. Poor Virgil. He loves his pancakes, yes he does! Mama's pancakes, that is. The weekend ritual is now his daily bread, and he didn't really understand the inch-thick couch cushions he was presented with by his father.
So yeah, we will be taking extra care with the Krusteaz mix today. Or we'll just use the correct mix made up my Grandpa George back in the day. It incorporates whipped egg whites as an obligitory option and boy. Boy O boy. Yep. Pancakes.
Working, working, working. Dropping off at day care, picking up at day care, repeat. Mama working late, Mama going off to the gym or Yoga, Mama having meetings at Intel and HP corporate headquarters. She's going great guns, and I hope to say that her career will be at least 100 times more sucessful than mine ever was.
Now here it comes. The thought comes so easily to you, and my history means so much to so many that when I denigrate it even slightly correctly it's like a Democrat commenting on Iraq to a wingnut.
I recall having an argument with a nice German man at a party. It was during my first professional European foray in 1982, and you couldn't have found a nicer, more generous musician than I. My first European trip was taken three years previous, and after a nasty introduction to the French (whom I love, don't get me wrong), I was treated to one great European after another (if it's bad to negatively generalize, is it also bad to positively generalize? I'm not asking.) and therefore my confusion at having to have a nice argument (Yes, it's true! No, it's not! ad nauseam) with a German man was my introduction to Universal hard-headedness (after my brother and my second girlfriend's older sister, that is).
He was of the theologically-intense conviction that Frank only hired the Best Musicians in the World, and therefore, by extension, I was The Best Bass Player in the World.
My entreaties to logic were rebuffed in the extreme, and I found out that no facts in the world will counter a theological argument. Or whatever. I don't really care about these types of absolutes.
His point was that my opinion was not needed. Of course, he also had a picture of two penises in the mouth of a mustachioed blonde man on his bathroom door, so at the very least, his social abilities can be called into question. Also, I think I hate images of blonde men with mustaches (except for Robert Redford as Sundance, but he's a strawberry blonde, so that's different, isn't it?) quite a lot, so he started off on the wrong image-foot with me, didn't he?
Since my opinion doesn't matter in things of this...matter, I'm all for calling myself the Best Bass Player in the World, at least for conversations with people who have opinions that are inflexible and don't matter at all, like, e.g., who is the Best Bass Player in the World.
Therefore, I think I might start calling myself the Best Bass Player in the World, as far as this website is called.
Also, my web host has implemented two things. The first is CPanel X, which is the latest version of the Control Panel for my site. I'm doing web design for my boss, and this CPanel is on a large percentage of the sites I implement. Not mine though, at least until this month.
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Scott Carter Thunes, for
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