So, I've been busy with A LOT of things lately, most of them boring and none of your business. But nestled amongst the other happenings, a few friends and I have been buying up recording equipment and instruments with the aim of recording some tunes that don't sound like the aural equivalent of a vomit and turd quiche roasting in an dry pressure cooker. Most of us still also meet weekly to blast out the best live music to ever grace the den of any residence in town. But the predominant sentiment wafting through the air lately is that we have no aspirations of playing for a live audience. Ever. Hanging out in shit-hole bars with soulless drunks is no way to live your life; even for pay. To steal a page from Danny Glover, we're all gettin too old for that shit.
So in order to take the excitement of playing in new directions, some of us have taken to recording. Thus far we've only experimented with covers such as the one above (including the snap track that I failed to forbid), but an ever-growing buzz gives rise to hope for recording original works within a few months. I'm stoked, because I think with a little studio polish, maybe my homespun track Intervention won't sound so much like it needs an intervention itself.
Hope you guys are doing well and haven't choked on your own tongues or any bullshit like that.
The contra-positive to the Page Pimp epoch has been reached, thanks to the all-encompassing lameness of soccer.
While it easily makes the worst page in the world even worse, I'm not sure if THIS works with the bacon-enhancement or not. I'm not sure I want to find out, as the two combined may cancel each other out with such force as to tear a hole in the fabric of the universe.
In lieu of an exciting and detailed update about my personal life, I'm going to cop out and post about music by a cool artist: Tim Fite.
Tim Fite is quirky as hell, and worth at least a few minutes of your time. His music is simultaneously thoughtful and humorous, and often flirts with being ludicrous. He reminds me of a more accessible Frank Zappa. Damn near every entry about him on the web describes him as "eccentric". Nuff said.
Anyhow, you're not a total child, so I'll let you go further your investigations on your own. I think you're old enough to be trusted to use the Internet on your own now. Don't disappoint me.
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[Most of the images below were taken Monday evening in the vicinity of Oklahoma City. The last few were from the Tulsa area on Thursday morning. Pretty much every last one was used without permission. Suck it.]
I've heard it mentioned that people in fly-over-country tend to talk about the weather with greater frequency than expected. Most often, it is just a way to idly pass the time. Other times, (as with my uncle, a farmer and rancher) the weather is a topic that directly affects livelihood, and so is a subject of extreme importance.
Occasionally, we talk about the weather because it just got done kicking our collective ass.
In case it didn't make the news in your area (and I don't see why it would), we're had some hazardous weather around these parts as of late, and it's been tearing things up like Roethlisberger tears up his victims dates.
Tornadoes, lightning, torrential rains, hail... Mother Nature has been piling it on.
Even the home of the Sooners, the "Never Hit By A Tornado" town of Norman, got in on the action for once.
But honestly, it's really nothing new for this area, just part and parcel of living in this state this time of year.
"Yeah, uh, gimme a pick-six lotto scratcher and a carton of Kool menthols... Wait... Something's different about this place..."
The Chicken Little meteorologists predicted this rough weather almost a day in advance, promising us all that we would die horrible, weather-realted deaths, and giving everyone ample time to feel as panicked as possible. The Monday morning newspaper actually reported that tornadoes and baseball sized hail were likely in the afternoon and evening. Not bad, considering they went to press sixteen hours before their predictions proved true.
... ... ... ...
Wednesday evening, local meteorologists were back at it again. To paraphrase their predictions: "Shits gonna get freaky overnight, fool! Only this time, it'll be all up in your face, yo! Best cover your ass!"
At roughly five yesterday morning, I awoke to the sound what appeared to be static coming from the world's largest TV. My girlfriend and I had left the windows open and the attic fan on through the night, since it was pleasantly cool outside. It turns out that the "static" noise was from the massive downpour unfolding over town. The attic fan had pulled some of the moisture in through the window and on to my leg, probably contributing to my "non-asleep" condition.
As I got up to close the window and switch off the fan, sirens began blaring through the wet morning air.
"Turn on the TV. The weather," my girl groggily advised.
"Mrghph. Guzzunh. [cough] Yeah," I replied sexily, looking for all the world like a sexy cross between Antonio Banderas and some other guy women think is sexy at five in the morning. I don't know. Brad Dourif, maybe? Yeah, women are probably into him.
"Wow! You looked sexier than Brad Dourif there for a second!" my girl exclaimed, barely able to contain her excitement and lust.
"I know, baby," I coyly responded over the blaring emergency sirens. "What's that, you say?"
"I said 'quit staring at the goddamn wall and turn on the television!'" my woman said ever-so-sweetly.
On-air panic permeated every local channel, each station more alarmed and less coherent than the one before. On one station, I watched bright purple flashes dominate the footage from their "sky-cam" as the weatherperson observed that "at least we aren't noticing any of the bright purple flashes associated with high winds or tornado damage." Fucking brilliant, guy. Are you looking at the screen, or your lap?
"They don't know what the hell is going on."
"Yeah I know."
"Turn it off and let's go back to bed."
"Yeah, seems like it will be fine."
Nothing happened in my neighborhood. We both got another hour of blissful sleep while the storm mercilessly ripped apart other parts of town.
Sometimes you just get lucky.
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It warms my heart to know that no matter WHAT the weather has in store for anyone, any time, anywhere, I can still play an awesome prank on friends or strangers by mailing them live chickens or bees.
"Oh, I wonder what Krëg sent me for my birthd... FUCK! BEES!"
... ... ... ...
And speaking of weird shit in the mail, I rode up a few stories on an elevator today with a FedEx guy. I was going to deposit my tax returns (I use old-school snail mail for my returns), and was pretending not to listen to the conversation between Mr. FedEx and another passenger on the elevator. The passenger had noticed the deliveryman carrying an odd shaped canister, and made the mistake of inquiring as to its nature.
"Well, some people breed horses," said the man in uniform.
"But... I don't understand. Why the funny canister?" asked the banker.
"It's to keep the contents cool."
"Huh?" queried the suit.
"Horse sperm. I'm delivering horse sperm."
I think I'm changing banks.
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I can't believe THIS exists. More to the point, I can't believe I didn't think of it first.
